Shadowed Corners
by TheForgottenName
Summary: All Tim wanted was to fit in. To feel loved and accepted by the family he'd never truly felt apart of. His recent kidnapping by the Joker leaves him fragile and shaken, but where can he turn for help when every sibling held a grudge against him? When Batman saw him only as a mistake? What option was there, besides madness? It may be too late to save the broken bird...
1. Prelude to Madness

Hello all,

Strap in your seatbelts, because this is gonna be a long one. A long, hurtful, and fairly grim one, so don't be surprised. You've been warned.

Get ready to witness the loss of sanity.

And possibly, maybe you'll loose yours, too...

(cue evil laugh).

Enjoy!

* * *

Tim landed silently on the edge of the building. His padded shoes went completely unheard as he slowly shuffled to the other side of the building, where two dark and lone figures half stood, half crouched.

The smaller figure turned around quickly to Tim, startled and prepared to fight, but his stance softened to one of almost complete unvigilance when he realized it was only Tim.

"Timmy…" he said, approaching, "Maybe now isn't-"

"I need to talk to him now, Dick." Tim said softly, stepping around his eldest brother.

The building they were on was one in a remote and seclusive part of Gotham, and after many nights of patrolling, they found the building and surrounding buildings safe enough to use their actual names. But only on occasion, and only if they were absolutely sure the area was clear.

Tim approached the back of the still lone figure strongly, even though he mentally stumbled and shook. He had been a Wayne for a good many years, and yet the only people he really felt completely free around was Dick and Alfred. The two accepted him as he was. OCD-ridden, over rationalizing, over analyzing, and over calculating, included.

The tall and imposing man that stood before Tim... he was different.

As Bruce, he was tactical. He was open and free and unafraid to speak his mind. He was social and kind and wild and got along with everyone.

Tim was not like that. He was shy, secluded, and often without much reason, depressed.

Batman, on the other hand, was powerful. He was confident. He was scary. He was fear, and yet, he was also hope. Never had one hero become so many meanings to so many different people.

As Robin, Tim was none of those things either. He over thought every move he made. He second guessed every decision in his mind. He was brave in his own right, but he was first likely to think his way out of a situation, rather than fight it.

Both Batman and Bruce were the same man. But they were entirely different people, and Tim found himself referring to them separately often. There was Bruce the human, and Batman the hero.

His adopted siblings were like that, too. All so different in a mask and outside of it. Dick was appropriately more serious when he was under the mask. Though still a wise guy, a joker, and a bit of a show-off, he always kept his mission first and foremost. Oppositely, Jason was quieter and seriouser outside of his mask. He didn't speak much, unless a situation called for a sarcastic remark that he just couldn't hold in. On the other side of _that_ spectre Damian was much more verbal outside of his mask. He felt that the hero side of him had nothing to say to anyone. He let his skills speak for him.

Tim was so unlike the other Robin's.

Dick could fight. There was no doubt about that. His background had given him a flexibility that surprised, astounded, and baffled hero's and villains alike. He could do almost anything to his body. And with that flexibility came his speed and strength. If he wasn't strong enough to take on a villain, he could certainly dance around them and tire them out until he could.

He was the good boy of the family, and both Bruce and Batman appreciated that lightness and dependability that he brought.

Jason had never competed for the good boy title, and after his dip in the Lazarus Pit, he'd made his own name for himself. Jason wasn't nearly as flexible as Dick, and he wasn't as good a fighter, either. But he was scary. Scary, and very serious. His new personality had gotten him a reputation that had few people questioning him.

That determination drew Bruce and Batman to him like a moth to a light.

Damian was the newest addition, and right off the bat, he wanted everyone to know that he was the only son with Bruce's actual blood in him. He was annoying and fierce, but a gifted fighter. Once he put his fists down and thought things through, he actually had a very analyzing head on his shoulders. His ability to observe others made him keen on reading his opponents well.

His calm disposition, even in the heat of battle, allowed trust to easily flow between him and both Bruce and Batman.

And then their was Tim. Shy, quiet, always screwing-up, Tim.

It was those traits that had him on this rooftop that night. It was why Dick was here, and not in Bludhaven. Whenever something like this happened, the eldest was called in, because if anyone could calm and talk sense into Bruce, it was Dick.

Dick watched on at this moment, watching as Tim carefully approached Bruce from behind.

"I came to apologize, Bruce" Tim said, his attempts at putting on a strong face and voice most likely obvious to both men listening on the roof.

Bruce said nothing, continuing to watch the streets below.

"I know I screwed up," Tim went on, when he got no response, "I was rash and I was stupid. I know."

"What you did was dangerous." Dick said, coming up behind him, "You could have gotten yourself killed."

"I know." Tim said, "But I- I don't know. I just got so focused. It's like I couldn't stop myself-"

Tim suddenly needed to defend himself, but his reasons for doing what he did was cut short when Batman tilted his head slightly to the side. Small movements like that spoke volumes in Batman-Lango.

That head tilt meant Batman was listening, but he didn't quite feel obligated to say anything yet.

"You have to learn to trust, Timmy." Dick said with a sigh. "Trust your partners, and trust yourself."

Dick's verbal speaking, while appreciated, made Tim tense. Why did Dick always have to speak for Batman and Bruce? Why couldn't they speak for themselves. Sure, they'd probably say something along the same lines, but it would have actually _meant_ something to Tim if Batman had just turned around to _at least look at him._

"Bruce, I'm sorry." Tim said, stepping closer to the Dark Knight.

Tim was well aware that Bruce wasn't "home" at the moment. But he spoke to the man, to his _father,_ anyway.

"Dick's right." Tim said, turning slightly back to his older brother. "I hesitated, and I let that thug get away. And then I beat his partner senseless because I was angry at _my own_ mistake. I should have just trusted you when you told me to wait outside, but Bruce, I _always_ wait outside, and last night, I didn't _want_ to be damage control. I actually wanted to be _involved._ You can't hate me for wanting to do more, right?"

Honestly, Tim's job _hadn't_ been to simply wait outside. He'd actually been tasked with scouting for the thugs' friends. Oracle had reported four thugs, but the bat-family had only caught sight of two at the scene of the crime; the lead thief and his partner. While Batman lead the others inside the shop, Tim had found the third thug up on a fire escape, his gun pointed at anyone leaving the jewelry store they were robbing. One batarang later and he was out for the count. But when Tim saw both thieves getting away, he'd abandoned his job of finding the last thug to go after them.

One thief had gotten away and Tim had gone in on the one he'd caught. The last thief had apparently been hiding inside an actual apartment with his gun trained on Tim. When Batman, Red Hood, and Damian (who was in training and nameless at this point, still in his assassins outfit) came out the jewelry store to stop him from killing the man, the last thief had shot Jason in the arm.

Jason was most definitely planning on murdering Tim.

Batman had taken care of the thief in the apartment himself, but he hadn't said a word to Tim since.

So here Tim was, pleading with Batman to acknowledge him. Look at him. Forgive him. Anything. Even anger was welcome at this point, as long as Batman showed _some_ form of emotion. Yet Batman sat motionless. Dick said nothing, though Tim could almost _feel_ the telepathic urges Dick sent to try and get Bruce to speak.

At least 3 beats passed. Years. Several lifetimes. And then slowly, (slowly, slowly, slowly) Batman stood up straight. He did not fully turn around to Tim, but he tilted his head in his direction.

"Fine." Batman (not Bruce, because there _was_ a difference) said.

Dick _tsked_ at the poorness in that one word.

But Tim lost it. He snatched his mask off, the glue that kept it in place pulling at his skin as he peeled it away.

"Is it only through a mask that you can stand to look at me?" Tim asked, his voice raw, cracking and high with his anger. "I get it. I will never be as lovable as Dick. I will never be as strong as Jason. You will never love me like you love Damien."

"Timmy…" Dick began, his voice thick, like at any moment, he might cry (which really wouldn't have been a big surprise to Tim).

"But i'm still here, Bruce." Tim went on, his eyes welling, "No matter how much you don't want me, I'm still here. And I need acknowledgment too, just like everyone else. I need you to look at me and _see_ me for once. See _some_ good in me, and not just the bad."

Batman made no effort, or even a motion to suggest that he considered turning to fully face Tim.

The lack of emotion Batman showed was not at all surprising. Which is why Tim tried so hard to get through to Bruce. Bruce wasn't emotional either, but he at least had the freedom to be.

" _Please_." Tim begged after the silence. "Look at me!"

He rushed to Batman's side, pulling on his cape until he literally forced the man to look at him.

Why that was so important, he could not say. Maybe he wanted the man to see how sorry he was for losing control of the situation during that robbery.

But honestly, Tim felt that this apology was more than about what happened to those petty thugs. It was more about Tim as a person, and his always present feelings of neglect and unworthiness.

It was bad enough Jason and Damian believed he didn't deserve his role as Robin. But he couldn't take it if Bruce was to share the same sentiments.

" _Speak_ to him!" Dick urged their mentor, when Batman only stared at Tim.

But Batman's silence was enough, and Tim could pour his heart out to a stone cold statue no more. He turned on his heels, sticking his mask back on, fled past his brother and leaped from the roof.

He shot his grappling hook off in a time so delayed that it made Dick's heart stutter.

"You're a real piece of work, you know that?" Dick said, angry, when his brother was gone. "You needed to talk to him."

"You said what needed to be said." came Batman's monotonous voice.

"He needed to hear it from _you_. I don't know if you've noticed, but Tim isn't like the rest of us. He needs _verbal_ encouragement, or he'll break. And you know that."

"You grew up just fine with just a few head nods and shoulder pats."

Dick marched up Batman, and in one swift motion, he yanked Batman's cowl back and off of his face.

"That's because I'm not afraid to pull off your mask." Dick spat. "I'm not afraid to see you cry."

Bruce wiped at his eyes slowly. There was something about Dick that just didn't make you ashamed to cry in his presence.

"He isn't like the rest of you." Bruce said, hanging his head slightly. "Nothing at all like you. Most of the time, though, a _good_ thing."

"Why couldn't you just _say_ that to him?!" Dick exasperated, "that alone would do wonders for him."

Dick sighed, "You can't keep brushing him off, Bruce. You're hurting him more than you know. And I can't just stand and watch him get hurt."

"Go and talk to him, then." Bruce said, pulling his cowl back up as his paranoia took over.

"You just don't get it." Dick sighed, "Do you understand that Tim thinks you don't _want_ him? Do you understand that he's probably the way he is because of _you._ He's trying to be perfect for you, and it's killing him to fall short. He thinks you're disappointed in him."

"We should never stop striving for perfection."

Dick went through several quick successions of anger, all of which involved him flailing his arms at his mentor.

"No one's perfect!" he yelled, "Not me. Not you. And not him. But you've got him thinking that it's the only thing you'll accept and it's _killing_ him. Do you hear me? _You're_ killing him. I know you care. I know you'll sulk about it in the cave later. But for Pete's sake can you sulk together? Maybe then he'll actually feel worthy to fight crime. If he'd get you down off your pedestal, he'd see there wasn't much to live up to anyway."

Dick stormed off in search of his brother. He was harsh on purpose because the situation called for it. Batman sometimes needed a dose of his own medicine, but amplified 10 fold.

And while Dick wasn't done chewing the man out, Tim needed him more at the moment.

* * *

Prelude to Madness is the first part and chapter. It's fairly short to set the stage for the rest of the story. A lot of the story is done already, so stay tuned for the next update.

Cheers!


	2. I Lost You Once

So I'm back with another 'filler' chapter. I've got to get this one out so the MAIN story can start. That's why this chapter is so short. Enjoy and stay posted. Next chapters coming soon.

* * *

Nightwing landed on a window sill, his eyes scanning the streets for his brother. Robin was good at hiding, and he made quick getaways. Even though Nightwing had been right behind Robin, he'd still lost him somehow.

That is, until Robin went careening down towards the ground at lightning speed, across the street from him.

Nightwing's first thought was suicide (in his profession, that was not unusual), and that broke his heart in a way it had never been before. It was not the feeling he'd had when he'd lost his parents. That had been a sinking, black hole of feelings surrounding helplessness.

Even though Nightwing could easily save Robin's body now, he had failed to save his mind.

But then Robin reached out, and he caught himself on a windowsill, heaving himself up quickly. The way he scanned the skies, his hand automatically flying to his belt to pull out a batarang, Nightwing knew Robin hadn't had suicide on his mind. His line must have been cut by someone and now he was on high alert.

It was not totally unusual for the bat-family's lines to get cut. Sometimes, the line came across something sharp and in midair, you'd find yourself shooting off at top speed. And while it was protocol to do a quick check of the area before swinging off, it still happened sometimes.

A vibrate went through Nightwing's glove, an emergency beacon Robin had just sent out, but Nightwing waited a moment to see what the issue was.

Nothing threatening seemed nearby though, and Nightwing shot a line onto the building Robin was on and swung towards him. There was absolutely nothing nearby to mess with Nightwing's line, he'd checked, but clearly, that hadn't been the issue from the start. Nightwing watched a purple dart shoot his line with military precision and suddenly, he was falling.

A rushing and exhilarating feeling for him, he turned his body to aim towards the tangled array of clotheslines below him that he'd use to save his life. This was a routine self rescue.

"Nightwing, don't!" came too late, though, as Nightwing reached out to grab the clothes line.

His hair stood on end immediately and his muscles spasmed as he was shocked and electrocuted by the wired lines. There was a brief moment of pain before Nightwing was able to block and tune it out. His suit was made to take the brunt of any electrical currents sent through it, but still, high voltages hurt like nobody's business, and this current was high enough to knock him out cold.

He finally came to on the ground, Batman standing over him and shielding him from the falling rain. When had it started raining, and how long ago? Who'd cut his line and wired the clothesline? Where was Tim?

"What happened?" Batman asked, simply.

Nightwing jumped up, stretching the tight and tensed and spasming muscles in his arms and legs.

"Where's Robin?" he asked, looking around. "He was there, up on that windowsill. Someone had cut his line."

"Why didn't he send out a beacon?" Batman asked, shooting a line up to where Nightwing had pointed.

"He did." Nightwing said, following. "I got it just after his line got cut, but my line got cut and I grabbed a clothesline that was wired."

The windowsill was empty of any and all evidence showing Robin had been there, so the two men headed up to the roof.

The roof was empty, leaving the bright green and purple box painfully obvious under the steady shower of rain that fell.

"What's that?" Nightwing asked, going around Batman to investigate.

Upon closer inspection, the box turned out to be a Jack in the Box. It's black handle glistening with unsuspecting promise, Nightwing threw a wing-ding to turn the handle without him being near. The handle was sent turning, playing a simple, childish tune, before confetti and a dummy dressed like Robin popped out. The dummy wore an old black and tattered blanket as a cape with a black duct tape mask, as it bobbed around in the rain as the childish jingle continued.

Neither men said a word as they shot their grappling guns off and swung down to the side of the building for cover. As expected, the box blew up, destroying any evidence the clue might have left.

The point was made, though. Joker was behind this, without a doubt, and he taunted Batman by stating the obvious.

"We might still be able to catch him." Nightwing said, scaling back up the the roof. "They can't be too far."

"You were out for over ten minutes." Batman said plainly, walking over to investigate the area the Jack and the Box had once been.

Ten minutes was a long time. But Nightwing took his chances. He left Batman to investigate, and roof hopped away on his own.

He was going to find his brother.

* * *

A week went by before any progress was made. Every day, every _hour,_ that passed, Dick panicked more and more. There were clear signs that the Joker had taken him, but none of his old hideouts or whereabouts were occupied. His clown thugs weren't even on the street.

Nothing since the Jack in the Box had turned up. Not even Robin's belt or the tracking device in it that went dead before he was taken was found.

But while Dick worked furiously to find his brother, Bruce worked even harder. He didn't eat, didn't sleep, didn't leave his computer except to go out to search at night. Every morning, he was closer to making a public announcement about his missing son. Outside of the bat-family, only Luscious, Commissioner Gordon, and Leslie Thompson was aware.

Jason 'mysteriously' disappeared, as he often did whenever he expected Bruce to force him to work or help Tim, and Damian flat out refused, locking himself in his room or training tirelessly. No matter what, Bruce would never condemn training, so it was Damian's perfect excuse. Until it wasn't, and Bruce nearly knocked Damian's teeth in. Bruce had taken a good, precise swing at Jason too, and after assuring Jason that his nose was fine, the entirety of the bat-family set out to look for their missing.

Three and a half weeks in total dragged on before Tim's rescuing. A beacon, unknown in origin or source, caught Oracle's eye. It had been transmitting a signal directly to the bat cave, something that didn't happen, even by accident. She alerted Alfred who alerted Bruce who traced the beacon to a previously unoccupied oil rig a few miles out from the harbor.

The only person who could send a direct distress signal straight to the cave was Tim. He knew all the codes and passwords and exact signal to reach his home.

In under ten minutes, the entire family had raced down to the harbor, hoping that somehow, Tim had been the one to get in contact with them. Nightwing knew that if anyone was able to get a signal home, it was Tim. He could make a beacon out of a shoelace and a potato if he had too.

They'd all clung to hope until Oracle confirmed that it had been Tim to call for help. Yet, he was no longer on the oil rig. Her satellite images showed that he'd _swum_ all the way to the harbor in the frigid waters. Which meant he was positively post hyperthermic at that point.

"Just off the coast of the coordinates I'm sending you." Oracle reported, "Hurry you guys, he's not moving."

"Scan the area in thermal." Batman instructed.

"His body temp is low." Oracle responded, "He's already in the green."

Tim had made it to shore, but he'd most likely drifted in from the current because he was unconscious by the time Nightwing had spotted him face down on the bay.

Only a slick, steep, and muddy hill separated Nightwing from his brother, and he slipped and slid all the way down to the bottom. But he didn't care, he'd reached Tim first. Nightwing checked first for a pulse, then he put his ear to his brothers chest.

Batman slid down the hill gracefully, surfer posing until he was on level ground again. Nightwing nodded to him, breathing a sigh of relief.

Tim was safe now. He probably had pneumonia and possibly hypothermia was setting him. But he was alive, and that was all Nightwing cared about.

Nightwing stood, but when he bent down to grab Robin, Batman beat him to it. Nightwing knew better than to object or insist Batman let him carry his brother, so Nightwing followed behind at a short distance. From behind, at least he could catch Batman in case he slipped in the slick mud.

Of course, Batman didn't slip or fall not even once

* * *

And, let it begin from here.

Cheers, everyone.


	3. Dreamers Never Wake

Tim didn't wake fully for another two days, and when he did, Dick was glad he was the first to greet his brother. The small fevered fits Tim thrown the past few days had bothered Dick immensely, so seeing Tim fully awake, eating, and seemingly well was a much anticipated relief.

"I don't feel different." Tim said, eating the soup Alfred had given him. "I don't even feel sick."

Tim sat on the edge of the medical bed clad in sweats and a t-shirt. He had a blanket around his shoulders, but he'd been shrugging it off only to pull it back on constantly since waking. But that was just Tim. Usually too hot, but occasionally freezing for no reason, he kept blankets with him just in case.

"Achy?" Dick asked him, skeptical, "Feverish? Sore? Headache?"

"Nothing." Tim said, shaking his head. "Not a thing."

"Well," Dick sighed, "We'll run more tests to make sure."

Tim nodded. Usually, after a kidnapping, Bruce insisted they speak with a counselor or psychologist, namely, Dr. Tompkins. But Tim couldn't remember anything from his kidnapping, so their was nothing to counsel him on. From the second he saw Nightwing grab the wires clothesline to waking up in the cave, there was nothing but blank and thoughtless memories. He did not know how he'd gotten across the bay. He did not remember being carried home and nursed back to health. He did not know who took him, though evidence seemed to point to the Joker.

Since no one had fought the Joker, seen the Joker, or even remembered hearing the Joker's voice, though, it was fairly easy (or preferable, rather) to just pretend the incident didn't happen. It was easier to pretend nothing unusual had happened than face the fact that something had. _Tim_ had trouble forgetting that, as did Dick, but it seemed that no one else seemed to. Jason, Damian, and Bruce weren't very expressive anyway, though. Each choosing to keep concerns and emotions within. And while usually Tim was like that as well, this was a situation he felt needed more closure. It was not a case he could label as 'currently unsolved'. It was not something he wanted to come back to in a month.

"I just don't… I just don't _feel_ any different." Tim said, setting his empty bowl aside. "I don't feel hurt or bad… I'm not even tense."

"That's… that's _good._ " Dick said, hesitantly, then firmly, "It's good."

"It's unlikely." Damian said, plainly, leaning against the medicine cabinet.

Damian had been running on the treadmill and stopped to see why Dick hadn't been there timing him, like he usually did.

"It _is_ strange," Alfred mentioned, grabbing Tim's empty bowl, "Why would Joker take you, just to leave you? Unless he was proving a point, but even then, he'd stay to gloat, at the very least."

"Should've killed him years ago!" Jason called over his shoulder, absentmindedly as he worked on his bike across the cave.

Jason's voice carried on in echos, bouncing off the cave walls and sending a few startled bats screwing and flying. Everyone was silent for a moment, thinking in some way, about the Joker's motives. What could he want with Tim? With Robin? Often, they only wanted Robin to get at Batman. It was always about Batman. And yet, this time, Batman was not involved. No clues. No pictures. No joke. No anything. It just made the situation odder.

"We'll do another examination." Bruce stated, leaving to go to his computer with Damian right behind him.

Bruce had been watching on, seemingly passively, as Dick took more blood and spit samples for testing.

"Aren't you going to stay for it?" Tim asked, the question having just run through Dick's mind as well.

"Busy." was all Bruce said, over his shoulder.

Dick put on a smile, stepping in front of Tim to block Bruce from his sight.

"That's better anyway." Dick told him, "Now he won't get in my way."

Dick did not know what he was searching for, nor if there was anything to even look for, but in the back of his mind, he hoped there was. It made no sense for Joker to take Tim and do nothing to him. At least if Dick found something, there would be something for them to fix. Something to explain the _why's_ and the _what's._

Yet, Dick found himself sighing as he looked over the results.

"Everything checks out fine, Timmy." he said, putting the stethoscope around his neck. "I don't see a thing wrong with you."

"But it doesn't make any sense." Tim said strongly, and Dick could see easily just how much this was bothered him.

The unanswered questions. The blackout. The mystery. It was the kind of thing that drove an OCD ridden kid up the wall. And right now, Tim was beside himself with frustration. Which, in all honesty, was understandable.

Getting kidnapped by the Joker was a big thing. Major, actually. It was something _no one_ wanted, but it wouldn't be a new tactic for the clown either. Kidnapping Batman's right hand man was the least original idea out there. Every villain took a stab at that at least once. But Batman wouldn't have allowed any of them out on the streets if kidnapping Robin was an easy target. Sometimes, villains just got lucky.

The kidnapping was what would worry most people. But it was letting him go unscathed that was more concerning to Tim. It was mysterious and unsolved and unusual and that kind of stuff drove Tim absolutely _mad_.

While no one would just 'let this go', Dick decided he needed to at least try and get his brother to move past this. Surely, the Joker did it for a reason, but until they knew what it was, Dick didn't want Tim to obsess like he was prone to. And with the way he and Bruce were at the moment, Dick needed his family to progress past this incident as soon as possible.

It was time everyone spoke to each other and got back on the same page.

* * *

Batman and Robin had worked together since the jewelry incident and the kidnapping, but their words had been short and their interactions with each other had been even shorter. It was clear that nothing had been resolved, and unresolved things made both boys grouchy and tense.

Batman, as he was prone to do, brooded and threw the silent tantrums everyone had come to recognize. Dick and Jason had many experiences with those tantrums, and from that experience, Dick knew that the sharp tongue and annoyed gestures Batman tossed was actually hurtful. Of course, Dick could be sensitive. But Tim was fragile, and that was just as bad.

The snapping at him, the bite in his voice, leaving him behind on purpose - that kind of behavior did more damage to Tim that Dick supposed to did to anyoje else. Jason genuinely didn't care. But on the slight chance that he did (and believe it or not, sometimes he did), he could snap an insult back fast enough to make you second think you comment. And that was enough for Jason. Damian had a quick temper, but he was used to discipline and correction. While he didn't always take it... well, he _did_ take it, and there was something to be said about that. Dick simply knew Bruce enough to read between the lines, and any snap his way was often interpreted differently. Be he right or wrong.

But Tim? He seemed to nearly fall to pieces. He began to hyper focus on every little detail in every situation he came into, his attempt at not getting anything wrong again. But that sharp focus made him miss some of the most obvious of things and he just ended up messing up even more. Which made Batman yell at him, which made him try harder, which made his mistakes that much more painful, and the cycle would start again.

Dick needed, and tried, to get the two to reconcile, if only because Tim would become a hazard to himself and everyone else if he didn't stop trying to be perfect. But Bruce was too stubborn to go back on his word at this point, and Tim had already poured his heart out and refused to crawl back to his step-father again.

Dick might have considered letting the two work things out on their own if it didn't seem like Tim had a problem with everyone, save for himself and Alfred.

Jason didn't like Tim because he believed Tim had taken the Robin mantle against his right. Jason felt unjustifiably replaced, hence the nickname Replacement, he gave Tim.

Damian had never been an accepting person. He judged people very quickly on usually very little facts. All he needed to know about Tim was that Tim was not of Wayne blood (never mind that Dick and Jason had been adopted as well), and with that fact, he cast his harsh judgement. To him, it was clear that Tim did not belong. Not to Bruce, and not to Batman. Robin's kidnapping had, to him, proven that he was inept to fight crime.

* * *

Dick constantly thought about how to get his family all on the same page, but, there were moments when he had to take time for his hero work, too.

Lounging on his favorite couch one day, he studied up on _Tahtib_ , an ancient Egyptian fighting style. After Nightwing's encounter the previous night with a man who called himself The Scarab, who was actually a skilled assassin that fought in the ancient fighting style, Dick figured it was time to brush up on some history.

He was just getting to the meat of his research when he heard Tim let out a startled cry and Damian was suddenly flown over the couch, landing gracefully on his feet.

"Stop fighting." Dick said simply, not looking up from his computer.

" _I_ was minding my own business." Tim said, approaching the couch, a plush pillow in his hands, "But the little demon tried to smother me."

Damian _tsked_ , "Drake, if I wanted you dead, you would be dead."

"Whatever." Tim said, dropping the pillow on the couch and going back to the dining room table, where he'd been playing himself in chess.

Damian rolled his eyes, walking by.

"Don't bother him." Dick said to Damian, as he passed.

"I refuse to tiptoe around him like he's fragile." Damian snapped, "Anyone dumb enough to get kidnapped by the Joker deserves to be put out of this house. If Drake had been good enough-"

Before Dick could cut Damian off and explain that it could have happened to any one of them, Tim had left his chess game and was over the couch. He'd moved faster than even Damian had anticipated and Damian had little time to defend himself.

The glass table in front of Dick shattered, as Tim grabbed Damian by his shirt, picked him up and smashed him through it. Dick's feet had been resting on the table, and he felt a few shards cut at his ankles as he jumped up to break the two up.

Tim only got one good punch into Damian's face, though, before Dick pulled him off. But Tim was furious with his younger brother, and it took both of Dick's hands to keep Tim from going back in on the younger boy.

"You're _pathetic_ , Drake." Damian said, picking himself off of the floor and out of the glass, "You're short tempered, and if nothing, this outburst has only proven my point that you're unfit to fight beside my father."

Tim said nothing, but he pulled hard against Dick, and Dick almost lost control of him.

"Get out of here, Damian." Dick said, struggling against Tim, "Go find Alfred and get yourself checked out."

Damian left after that, though a smirk on his face didn't go unnoticed by neither Dick or Tim. Tim stopped fighting Dick when Damian was out of sight, but his muscles never relaxed, and Dick wondered how long he'd been that tense.

"Your arms are cut." Dick said, letting him go. "You should let me-"

"I'm fine." Tim snapped, stepping over the glass and moving towards the stairs.

"No you're not." Dick said, being as gently as he could, "Let me take a look at them."

Dick reached for Tim's left arm, blood from the glass already leaking through his gray long sleeved shirt, but Tim pulled back and out of reach.

"I'll handle it."

Dick weighed the pros and cons of letting Tim handle his own injuries. On the plus side, he could make sure Tim's wounds would heal correctly, even though Tim himself was trained in first aid. But on the down side, he'd probably have to tap into several secret martial arts moves of his just to keep Tim down. When Tim didn't want any help, he was often willing to sacrifice his health even further if it meant getting away.

Deciding that Tim could handle it, Dick went into the kitchen, in search of a broom. He figured Alfred shouldn't have to clean the mess up.

* * *

Tim slammed his bedroom door shut, and then regretted that immediately. He was not angry. Not really. Sure, he had his… disagreements… with Damian. He had them with Jason, too. Truth be told, he didn't actually like them very much. But they didn't like him right back, so there really was not much anger to go around to anyone else. Not truly, anyway.

But just then, he'd just gotten so _angry_. He couldn't really explain it, but it had been a reaction he wasn't used to himself having. That loss of control was a move Jason would pull, not him. But something in him just _ached_ to scream, and fight, and yell, and hurt people. That was not Tim, though. He wanted to _help_ people. He was _good_.

He shook his head, going into his bathroom. Of course he was good. That was not something to be debated.

He pulled his shirt off, careful of his arms and tossed the shirt on the floor. His arms were not terribly cut and within minutes, he'd been able to pull out the glass pieces. He'd come out of that lucky. If his wrists had been cut he'd of been in a lot more trouble.

He wondered about the cuts he'd inflicted upon Damian. He was sure he'd slammed the boy's head into the table first. It sounded terrible when he thought about it. Damian wasn't _much_ shorter than Tim, but he was still younger. And yet, no matter how hard Tim tried, he could not make himself feel sorry for the boy.

Damian had asked for it. Who was Damian to say Tim didn't deserve to fight beside Batman? Tim earned the spot of Robin fair and square. He didn't have Dick's experience, or even Jason's, but he was approved of. He'd passed Bruce's tests. He'd beaten Alfred in training. He'd done a lot of good in Gotham.

How dare Damian. And how dare Jason. He deserved to fight the good fight. He'd proved himself ready. And he had nothing to prove to anyone.

* * *

Sorry I vanished. Hope this was long enough for you all.

Cheers!


	4. Dinner with the Wayne's

Tim made it a habit to stop in the hospital at least twice a week. More so out of respect than actual affection. Jack was Tim's father, he was blood, and he was sick. Duty and obligation was what had Tim signing in and walking down white hospital hallways.

His father had been in a coma for a good many months, now. Tim had been Robin long before the incident, but even living in the same house, he and his father had rarely spoken. They'd argued often and simply stayed out of each other's way.

In many ways, Tim's relationship with his father now was actually better than it had been before. Not much more was exchanged between the two, but at least now there was no fighting. No yelling about his mysterious bruises. No suspicions of where Tim was all night. No jealousy over the fact that Tim spent most days at a mansion on the other side of Gotham.

Likewise, Tim didn't have to question where his father's money always went. He didn't question who the new girl Jack went out with was. He didn't question who always called his phone in the middle of the night.

"Dad." Tim acknowledged, pulling a chair besides his father's bed.

He pulled out the newspaper he'd grabbed, read the date, time, and day, like always, and began reading the paper aloud.

His father had always read the paper, so Tim made sure his father didn't miss out on much. And stating the date and time would keep his father more current and have him more aware when he woke, in the case that his father could hear him.

Tim suspected his father couldn't, but he wasn't taking any chances just yet.

Besides Bruce's silence to him, everything was back to normal as far as Tim was concerned. Jason was in and out of the house at will, disappearing for days on end only to return with bullet holes in his suits but a small grin on his face. Damian was a pain, constantly bickering and doubting Tim's worth. And Dick was there trying to fix it all.

Those were things Tim wished he could tell his father. Deep things that a father would be proud his son trusted him enough to talk about. Instead, though, Tim told his father about the college he didn't go to, but told his father he did. He told him about the part time job he probably ought to have, pretended he did, but didn't. He told his father he was looking for an apartment, though that was far from the truth.

Honestly, Tim didn't leave the house very often. To the hospital and back to the manor. Out on patrol, then back to the manor. He didn't have many friends like Dick did. Dick had true friends. Friends that knew him inside and outside of the mask. Sometimes, Tim was jealous of that. But most times, he wasn't. He didn't like people much.

But right now, maybe friends, or even _a_ friend, was just what he needed. Maybe he needed someone outside of his house to offer an objective viewpoint and perspective. Offer him advice about why Bruce hadn't spoken a word to him in days.

* * *

Alfred insisted the family sat together every night to 'enjoy' dinner together. Most nights, dinner included knife fights, arguing, cursing, under the table leg assaults, glares, and a general feeling that suggested no one wanted to be there.

Bruce supported the idea for Alfred's sake, but there were definitely nights when it was easy to tell he'd rather be eating alone in his room.

Dick was 100% for the idea of constant family togetherness, of course.

Damian didn't openly deny the idea, unless Tim or anyone else sat in 'his seat' which was next to Bruce.

Jason was the most open about his dislike of being forced to sit with everyone. He was also the one to start any knife fights, the only one cursing, and with longer legs than Tim and Damian, he also led the assaults under the table.

There were days when Tim hated the arrangement of eating dinner together (most days, actually). Damian always had something horrible to say to him and Jason always had some sly remark to hit him with. But there were days, too, when Tim just kept silent and watched his family interact. Watched Dick poke fun at Bruce and hear Jason chime in and to see Damian deny his father's faults and try to defend him. Making fun of Bruce was common ground for all Wayne boys to some extent. And there were times when Tim watched them all talk about some villain, or some lame remark they'd been thrown and see them all smiling simultaneously for once.

And Tim would smile to himself, their good humor and relatable stories infectious. But later, he'd think about it for hours. He'd think about how his silence and ability to blend into the background had added to their fun. Had he chimed in at any point, the mood would likely have gone sour quickly. According to Damian, he wouldn't know what he was talking about. According to Jason, it was information he had no right to be privy to, as a 'replacement'.

Dinner could either be filled with talk of petty villains, or knife fights. That's just how Tim's family was.

This night was no different. Good fortune was on his side, though, as Tim managed to get placed between Dick and Alfred. It was the spot he always preferred, but Alfred liked them to mix up seating every now and then and it was he who chose the seating.

While Tim usually dug into whatever Alfred had made with no hesitation and an appetite only a nineteen year old boy could possess, this night, he only stared and poked at his food. His stomach muscles were tremendously tight, and he felt sick to the point of nausea. But it seemed to go unnoticed as everyone else went on as usual.

"Branson was fired today." Dick spoke, "Fourth dirty cop this week, which is an all time high. Chiefs pretending to crack down on them, but it's only a matter of time before it comes out that he's dirty, too."

"Who turned Branson in?" Damian asked, and Dick smiled at him.

"Who do you think?"

"Your little good cop, bad cop charades gonna get you killed or discovered." Jason said, drinking his water, "You're too giddy. You can't play Nightwing at night and bad cop during the day."

"Hey, now, that's not fair." Dick argued, "I've been doing it for a while now and no one suspects. I'm better at my jobs than you think. You'll see, it'll all work out. I'm doing a lot of good during the day as well as the night now."

"Cops are a dumb profession to get into, considering who we are." Damian pointed out, "You're too likely to give away our secret."

"You know it hurts how little faith you all have in me," Dick whined.

This small bickering was normal. These little arguments Alfred could deal with. He didn't mind them. They were just being 'brothers'. It was the big ones that made Alfred question how good an idea this all was. The ones that ended with blood and groundings.

"You're not eating, master Timothy." Alfred observed from across the table.

Dick looked up from his meal, and Bruce raised an eyebrow.

So they had noticed. Something in Tim jumped at that knowledge.

"Not hungry." was Tim's simple reply.

Alfred hummed, taking another bite of food. He'd noticed Tim hadn't been eating all his food for a few days now. But this was the first time he'd not even touched his food.

"Maybe you're hungry for something else?" Alfred asked, "We always have a plethora of leftovers."

"Pork chops were good last night." Dick suggested.

"Plenty of that left." Alfred nodded.

Tim just shook his head, poking his food with his fork. It was not that he didn't _want_ to eat. To some extent, Tim _always_ wanted to eat. But he felt like any bite could lead to a vomit episode and that was not typically welcome at the dinner table.

"Just one bite, Timmy." Dick suggested, "You know you get hangry."

Tim wanted to point out that he didn't typically get hangry. He knew himself enough to recognize the sudden shifts in mood and could easily attribute that to going hungry. But, he said nothing, choosing to just please Dick for once.

If he threw up all over the table, he'd get Dick to clean it up.

The chicken fried steak that lay in front of him honestly looked delicious. It _smelled_ delicious. He was sure it _tasted_ delicious. The entire time Alfred had been making it, Tim's mouth had been watering. Yet with it right here in front of him, he felt little to no desire to eat it.

But Tim was a people pleaser. He always had been. It was something he hated about himself. Hated, hated, _hated_. Jason called it being a suck up. Damian said he had no backbone. But was it really so wrong to try and make others happy? Was giving not better than receiving? Even at your own expense? What hero _wasn't_ a people pleaser in some way or another?

Tim dug his knife through the chicken, glad Dick turned his attention to Damian when he did, and studied the cut meat in front of him. He furrowed his eyebrows, looking at his hands that shook a bit. Aside from being in freezing temperatures, Tim didn't shake. He never got the shakes. He disarmed bombs. Cut miniscule wires. Made tiny incisions on a daily basis. He'd always had steady hands.

Clenching his fork and knife, Tim closed his eyes. The world had tilted and swum before him suddenly, and it took everything in him to stay still and not fall over. That wave of anxiety was washing over him again and he put a clammy hand on the table to try and steady himself. He focused on his breathing, hoping everyone kept their attention away from him.

His stomach muscles were tight, like he'd spent the day doing sit ups, or laughed as hard as he could for a good 20 minutes. Laughing. _That's_ what it felt like. Trying not to laugh. That painful, clenching and tense knot in his stomach felt like suppressed laughter. It hurt to the point of nausea, but now that he identified that pain with laughter, it suddenly didn't bother him as much.

It was almost amusing now, actually.

But not amusing enough to stop the discomfort. Deciding that eating would absolutely not end well, with slow deliberate movements, he spent the rest of dinner cutting his food into smaller and smaller pieces. Maybe now it would look like he'd eaten and Dick wouldn't think any more of it.

When dinner finally did end, Tim had stood slowly to retire to his room. Bed sounded like a dream. He even considered skipping a shower and just falling flat on his face in bed. He was sure he'd be out in minutes.

He was thwarted in that plan, though, when everyone else cleared out faster than him. Dick to the living room, Jason to the cave, Damian to his room, and Bruce to who knew where. Alfred went to the kitchen and Tim recalled sharply that it was his week to assist Alfred.

It had never been a spoken rule, but everyone silently agreed that Alfred deserved help around house, especially in the kitchen after dinner. Dinner was alays perfect. The least they could do was help with clean up for a week before switching off. Naturally, they went in age order, and Jason had helped the week before. Which meant Tim was up.

Never had Tim minded more than he did that night. He'd hardly stood without falling over. During dinner, he'd tried to take a drink of water, and had missed his mouth almost completely. He need some major rest.

But Alfred was already in the kitchen, humming as he put dishes in the dishwasher. How could Tim let him go on alone? Though he hadn't eaten, Alfred had still cooked for him. He deserved more than someone to just clean the table and sweep. Yet, he asked for nothing in return. Tim would not let him down. He was a people pleaser, after all.

Besides, the dishes took the longest, and Alfred was already doing that. Tim just had to get his bearings and do some menial work.

Every plate but his own was just barely clean enough to simply put back in the cabinets. He was glad everyone was in a rush to go do there own things.

Stacking the plates on top of each other slowly, Tim recalled how quick and easily he usually did it. One trip to the kitchen was all it took. Utensils in the cups, which were stacked on the plates, which held dirty napkins and any sauces they'd used. One trip.

Right now, he was struggling to hold just the stack of plates. Why did he feel so weak?

"Master Timothy?" Alfred called, his voice portraying he wasn't sure if Tim was even still there or not.

Tim didn't trust his voice. The way he felt, a tremor or weak tone would not have surprised him. And Alfred noticed everything.

Instead of answering, Tim just quickened his way to the kitchen. Headphones would be good about now. That way he could pretend he hadn't heard.

"You seem unwell." Alfred said, drying his hands on a dishtowel. "Come here."

Tim gripped the counter he set the plates on for stability. He wasn't even sure he could make it to Alfred at this point.

Alfred frowned hard at him, but jumped when a loud crash came from upstairs followed by yelling. Tim knew immediately Damian and Jason were going at it, and Alfred did too.

The man sighed, rubbing his forehead.

"Don't move." he told Tim firmly, tossing the towel on the counter, grabbing the broom, and marching down the hall to the stairs.

Dick could be heard trying to break them up now, and Tim finally relaxed. If Dick was involved, then it was serious enough to keep all four of them preoccupied long enough for Tim to try and regain some composure.

He felt sick to his stomach and letting go of anything stable detached his tether from seemingly gravity. The world would rock in degrees that made his head spin and stomach churn. None of the tricks he knew for nausea helped and it made him feel twice as sick because of it.

"Snap out of it." he told himself, quietly. "Get it together."

He pushed himself away from the counter, determined to have the table cleared before Alfred returned, but the moment he let go of the counter, he fell. He'd floundered to grab back onto the counter, but his hands had found only air.

He was dizzier than he'd thought. He pushed the balls of his hand ain't his eyes, focusing on his breathing.

In and out. In and out. Slow and steady. In through the nose, out through the mouth. He could fix this. He just had to relax. Stop freaking himself out. Just calm down.

* * *

Tim did not remember falling asleep. He must of passed out. But then, why wasn't he on the floor in the kitchen? Why was he… in bed? Yes, he was sure of it. This was his room.

A light knock came to his door and Dick peaked his head in.

"You up, Timmy?" he asked, and Tim sat up slowly.

To his surprise, he nausea was gone and any traces of dizziness had dissipated.

"Yeah," Tim said, glad his voice did not sound unusual, "I'm up."

"'Kay, cause we're about to get suited up."

Dick didn't ask if he was alright or mention finding him on the floor anywhere, so it wasn't him who'd brought Tim to his room. If Alfred had done it, he'd of gotten Bruce to carry him, and he'd of taken Tim's shoes off. Since Damian wasn't strong enough to carry him up the stairs and Jason would have left him, Tim concluded he must of came up by himself. Which, he didn't remember at all.

"I'm coming." Tim said, jumping out bed.

Aside from not knowing exactly how he'd gotten to his room, he felt completely normal. In fact, walking down the hall with Dick to get dressed and become Robin made him feel more normal than he'd felt in a while.

A long while.

* * *

"It's a cassette tape." Nightwing announced, seemingly proud of his ability to recognize it.

He tossed it to Robin easily.

Though the night was still early, Robin felt anxiety wash over him in a wave. For the past hour or so, he'd felt those waves of stress and anxiety get to him. His breathing quickened. His hands got clammy. He started sweating. But no matter how he thought the matter over, he could not pinpoint why he felt as he did. Nothing held a common situation.

Needless to say, Robin was relieved when Nightwing claimed him for the night as a partner. Batman had no objections, or anything to say about the matter, took Damian and was gone in the batmobile.

The Scarab, Nightwing's latest project hadn't been spotted, but an empty esophagus holding only a cassette tape seemed to tie in with the assassin well. They both fit the Egyptian theme.

"Play it." Nightwing said, but Robin scoffed at him.

"What kind of dinosaur equipment do you think I carry?"

"You _always_ have something in that belt of yours."

"I could _make_ something, but that'd be wasting my modern equipment. We should just play it in the cave. I'm sure Batman's got a trunk of caveman equipment."

"You know, I grew up on cassettes and VHS's." Nightwing said, "Back then, that stuff _was_ modern."

"You did _not_ grow up on cossettes," Tim countered. "You had CDs and DVDs."

"Not on the road we didn't. You try telling the ringmaster we needed a DVD player and he'd tell you to go jump off a tight rope."

"Which I'm sure you-"

"Which I did, of course."

Tim shook his head, pocketing the tape. Who even still had those? A USB or flash drive was so much better.

"Hang on," Nightwing said, pushing his earpiece.

He must have been talking to Batman. Robin frowned at his brother. Why wouldn't Batman use their open channel to speak, so that Robin could hear, too?

"Warehouse 22." Nightwing sighed, turning to Robin. "You and I are staking out a drug ring rendezvous."

Nightwing hated stakeouts. He thought they were too boring, despite the fact that he knew more than most that simple stakeouts could turn out to be just as deadly as any other mission.

"Drug ring rendezvous?" Robin repeated, and Nightwing shrugged, shooting off his grappling hook.

"Sounded cooler in my head."

The warehouses were always prime location for shady business deals. And the higher the warehouse number, the more it was neglected, which meant the shadier the business. There were only 30 warehouses, so warehouse 22 was bound to have some very dirty business happenings.

Nightwing lead the way and he and Robin reached the warehouse before anyone for the meeting did. Since they did not know a time for the meeting, Robin prepared himself to stay over night. Nightwing, on the other hand, always suspected they'd be gone in under a half hour.

"Shouldn't be too long, now." Nightwing said, sitting down cross legged, "I'm sure we'll see activity in, like, 10 minutes or so."

"You always say that," Robin told him, rolling out a sleeping bag.

"You won't need a sleeping bag, I'm telling you. We'll be home in half an hour."

Robin nodded his head, but rolled out a long strip of empty plugs. Then one by one, he began plugging in his equipment for the night. All of his gadgets and electronics were nearly fully charged, but he didn't want to take any chances. His strip was solar powered, so should they be longer than Nightwing expected (which was most likely), Robin wouldn't have to do without his equipment.

"You're over preparing…" Nightwing sang lightly, shrugging his shoulders slowly.

"Then let me over prepare in peace." Robin sang back, looking at his brother over his shoulder.

Nightwing shrugged, suddenly indifferent, and closed his eyes. He was probably meditating, something spending time with his Titan's friend Raven had hooked him on, but Robin knew his brother would be asleep in no time if he didn't start speaking soon.

But maybe a little sleep would be good for his brother. Being a cop was no easy job, and Robin would know. Balancing that with being Nightwing at night did a toll on the acrobat.

His temporary 'camp' set up, Robin waited another few minutes or so cross legged, just watching his brother.

Dick could literally fall asleep in a handstand (something he'd been caught doing on numerous occasions), so it didn't surprise Robin at all when he noticed his brothers breathing was even and he appeared to be completely out cold.

After scanning the area in thermal and coming up empty, Robin decided he'd give the area a personal once over before settling in for his now lonely stakeout.

Robin climbed out through the window and slowly scaled the old warehouse barehanded. The air was chilly, but the night was clear. A single, twinkling star could be seen in the brightened area, a lone survivor. A determined ball of gas. A deadly, but captivating sun that defied the darkness and shone bright anyway.

Robin shook his head as he climbed on top of the roof. It was always quiet this far down the warehouse lot, and usually, Robin liked that. The quieter, the easier it was to hear the secrets of criminals. The quieter, the stealthier Robin and his partner had to be, which meant minimum talking (always a plus). The quieter, the easier Robin found it to think.

But this moment, he found his thoughts were slightly captivated by the tall ascent he'd just made. He stared down at the ground that was stories away, and at the ground that up close was harmless, but deadly at a distance.

Heights had never frightened him before, even before becoming Robin. But falling… that had been a bit different. A younger, naive, and simple Tim Drake had taken gymnastics at a point in his life. He'd loved flipping and rolling around, as most boys had, but falling… it had held him back. Kept him from being the best of the best. Weighed and drowned him in a sea of possibilities. He'd always come up short in his gymnastics because he'd feared falling and getting hurt.

But look at him now. Atop a nine story building and fearing nothing. Not the drop nor what would await him if he fell.

He hummed to himself quietly before shooting his grappling gun behind him and watching as it wrapped around a small, broken fan on the dusty roof. The edge of the building was anything but smooth, or up to code. The tin of the roofing had been beaten and weathered and shot at by it's previous guests and was now jagged and edgy and sharp. It was a routine example of what to avoid when using a grappling gun.

Yet, Robin leaned against his line, rappelling down the side of the building until his grip on his grapple gun was the only thing keeping him from certain death. His line held fine against the jagged roofing, until Robin gave a small tug, fraying a miniscule thread and listening to it's tiny _snap_ in the silent night.

Robin moved the line again, listening as a few more of the threads snapped and popped away. It was a thrilling fact, knowing that every move brought him closer to death. Closer to such a terminal decision. What would his family do if he died? Would they cry? Mourn? Move on? Woud Jack wake one day and grieve forever at no longer having a son?

Selfishly, Robin hoped they'd all tear themselves apart with grief. He hoped Batman broke arms and ribs and killed in a fit of rage at his death. He wanted 10-fold the reaction of how he'd been with Jason. But logically, Robin knew his brothers and Alfred wouldn't let that happen. And that was _if_ Batman saw his death as any substantial loss. Jack probably wouldn't notice the extra silence.

Robin moved his line constantly now, sawing at his line and miniscule thread by thread, it was snapping. Batlines were reinforced with numerous layers of parachute cord infused with nylon and titanium alloys **,** which made it many times stronger than any line or string in the world. But with Robin pulling and rubbing on it like he was, the rope was fraying dangerously, meaning he could be just moments away from death. Which had never scared him before, but suddenly seemed… interesting.

Interesting was the word he decided he preferred. Interesting had scientific background. It meant he was curious for informational reasons. Not just a daredevil. Not just some kid who suddenly found falling to his death a very nonfrieghtening and compelling thing.

He wondered how long until his line snapped…

He wondered what Dick would do after his death.

He wondered if Jason and Damian would regret how they treated him if he died.

He wondered if Bruce would cry at his funeral.

And then the line snapped.

And for two heart stopping moments Robin was left dangling in the air. He dropped a foot or so- whistling wind beginning to rush in his ears, adrenaline coursing through his veins- before he was yanked to a jolting stop, and Nightwing above him gave a grunt at the jolt himself.

Nightwing wrapped the line he'd caught around his hand twice (something Robin knew Nightwing knew was against Batman's rules because of the possibility of broken, sprained, and injured hands a jolt like that could cause). But Nightwing did they same to his other hand, wrapping the line around it too, before pulling Robin up the small length of space he'd fallen down. It was almost as if he was afraid he might somehow let the line slip through his hands.

Suddenly like a wave, thoughts of stupidity and arrogance and cocky, selfish, ignorant self-scolding flooded his mind. He could no longer justify _why_ he'd thought dangling over the side of a building, watching his line fray, had seemed a good idea to him. He no longer found the drop interesting or curious or anything beyond life threatening and caution worthy.

The moment Nightwing pulled him into the roof, Robin's face flushed from embarrassment. He could have saved himself if he'd fallen, but he'd of fallen on his own accord, and that warranted the concerned, slightly angry, look his brother was currently giving him.

"I thought you were asleep." Robin confessed, putting his grappling gun away and avoiding eye contact.

"I was meditating." Nightwing said, that forced, overly calm his voice always had when he was pissed off, "I heard you leave but I figured you just had to pee."

"Where on earth could I pee out here?" Robin asked, looking around, his eyebrows knit in confusion.

"I don't know!" Nightwing exclaimed, and Robin, took a deep breath of relief.

The longer Nightwing held his emotions in, the larger it would come out later. The sooner he let it out, the better, and that had been a relatively quick release of pent up energy.

"You should have told me you were awake." Robin sighed.

"What's the point of meditating if you're going to be talking? I thought you'd want some more time to set up you're doomsday camp."

Robin just sighed and after pushing his anger and confusion away about what had just happened, Nightwing sighed, too.

"Let's get back." Nightwing said, "We don't want to miss anything."

When they returned to their hideout, it was clear that something had happened in their absence. All of Robin's equipment flashed quickly, some of them vibrating, some of them letting out small beeps.

"Did you turn on your mic?" Nightwing asked, already knowing the meeting had taken place without them.

Robin shook his head mutely, slightly in shock. He couldn't believe that they'd missed the very thing they'd come for, and only by a few minutes, all because of him.

"That's alright," Nightwing said gently, looking at him, "I'm gonna trail them on foot. See if maybe I can pick something up or get some location on file."

"Fine." Robin told him, pissed off at himself, "I'll meet you out there."

"Actually, no." Nightwing said firmly, and Robin turned to look at him.

Nightwing sighed before he softened his voice again. "I mean I can handle this, Robin. Why don't you go home and get some rest. You know me, I'm faster on my own."

This was news to Robin, since Nightwing _always_ preferred to work with a partner.

"I'll have Oracle walk you in." Nightwing said, already climbing back out the window and, in an instant, he was gone.

Left alone, Robin angrily packed his equipment and sleeping bag away. The one time Nightwing was right about this only taking 10 minutes, he'd screwed it all up. And not only that, but now he had to be walked in by Oracle.

The term 'walk you in' was coined sarcastically. Not to mock Barbara's condition, but to add to the irony of whoever was being walked in. Like a toddler being 'walked in' to their first day of kindergarten, or a prisoner being 'walked in' to jail, Oracle kept eyes on you so tight it took skills, energy, speed, perfect location, strength, and luck to get her off your trail. And even then, she could find you anywhere.

Flying through the streets on his way home, street cameras swung, following his every move. Street lights changed red beneath him (on the small chance that he'd fall, at least he wouldn't be hit by any cars). Lights inside of homes turned out if he swung too close to them (better to blame it on some kind of a power surge then let someone see him swing by).

Robin literally felt as if Barbara was holding his hand and walking him home.

Going home without Nightwing was odd when the two set off together. It felt a lot like leaving something important behind. Like he left the house with the stove on. Or like he left his wallet on a restaurant table. It just felt wrong.

Batman was still out, but still, Robin sat in the grassy area outside the cave entrance. He'd wait there until Nightwing returned, and the two would go in together, like they ought to.

* * *

Let me know if you're liking someone far.

Cheers!


	5. Some Days You're Better Off Without

**Read my comment at the bottom!**

* * *

When Nightwing finally returned, his dejected look said he hadn't gotten much information, so Robin didn't ask. He'd spent the past hour and a half kicking himself for getting distracted. And by something as stupid as… what, suicide? Had _that_ been what he'd preoccupied his mind with? Wondering about his own death was not usual. Every hero wondered how'd they'd finally go out in the end. But suicide?

That was not how heroes went. It was not natural. Suicide was… suicide was such a _heavy_ and _deep_ thing to find yourself preoccupied by, even by his standards.

Nightwing ruffled Robin's hair as he walked by and Robin smiled as he followed him. At least Nightwing wasn't upset with him. Probably, it was because he knew Batman would be plenty pissed.

There was no reason the two of them should have missed that meeting. They'd been there. They'd been given a head start. They'd had everything they needed to get the job done. There was no excuse for what had happened.

Inside the cave, Robin set to work reorganizing they're filing system. Now that Red Hood was using it, suddenly, things were no longer in alphabetical order. And, maybe the finished chore would soften the blow when Batman found out about what Robin had done.

When Batman and Shadow finally returned, Tim felt the world go unsteady. He'd been dreading the moment all night and he'd been trying to come up with a good excuse. When he couldn't think of one, he tried to come up with a good defense. And then a good nonchalant act, like Jason would throw. But in the end, he meditated on what a good apology would sound like.

There was no getting around what he'd done. Now, he just had to face the music. Again. What would Batman do this time? He already messed up so much, so often. Would Batman begin to doubt his worth as a partner?

Batman went straight to the computer when he got out the batmobile. Shadowed went to change and Robin was glad for it. He didn't need Shadow present for another one of his failures.

Dick had already changed and was approaching now, eager to hear about the Dark Knight's night, like always. Yet this night, he seemed to match some of Tim's anxiousness. It made Tim squint at him, he knew what his brother was about to do.

"How did it go?" Batman asked, not bothering to turn around.

"Great, of course." Dick announced, too loud, too hype, and too quickly.

That was the thing about Dick. He could lie to anyone he didn't know. Could lie to their face and you'd never know the difference. But to anyone who mattered to him, it was like his body shut down that ability and his lies suddenly didn't make any sense and came out all wrong and forced. Even to someone who wasn't trained to pick up lying, he still sounded bad.

It was partially why he was so bad at keeping secrets.

Batman picked up on it. Of course he did. He was Batman. But aside from slowing down in his typing, he showed no other interest. Complications was a part of their job. He'd ask about it later. For now, he sent Dick to work on freshening up Damian's offense when the boy finished changing. One that didn't involve him decapitating his opponent.

It was a job Dick was happy to oblige, and Robin snuck off to change after that. He was absolutely ecstatic and pleasantly shocked that that had actually worked. No one fooled Batman. And yet, he'd gotten away with possibly the dumbest mistake he'd ever made.

The night was not so terrible after all.

* * *

Tim's uber driver was suicidal. Tim was sure of it. The woman weaved through traffic like Red Hood. And that was not a compliment. When the woman stopped at the entrance of the hospital, Tim almost felt the need to check himself in.

It was early enough that the cold night air still hung in the air, but late enough to get a coffee from an actual coffee shop.

Despite having ended the night on a relatively high note (well, medium note, but he'd take it), Tim had not slept well. He didn't often, but the night was so bad that even he'd thought it odd.

He'd had the feeling of being watched constantly. Usually, that was not something to be ignored. Usually, that was a major situation that no one took lightly, especially considering his training warranted an elevated level of trust and instinct.

But Tim had sensed no danger, so he told no one. It wasn't until the sun came up and he was still wide awake that he realized how dumb that was.

What was it about the day that made night thoughts seem so ignorant?

Regardless of his night, though, he'd gotten up early as he always did. And now that he was riding the elevator up to see his father, he felt a sense of accomplishment and familial responsibility.

Grabbing a newspaper as he made his way down the hall, Tim prepared for the one sided talks he'd have, and the blatant lies he'd tell.

He was such a people pleaser.

* * *

Tim wished he could say he'd spoken to his father all day. He wished he could say his father had woken suddenly with a newfound appreciation for Tim. Tim _really_ wished he hadn't slept through the day in a hospital chair besides his father.

What was it about newspapers that made him so drowsy? Maybe it was because they weren't digital.

Either way, eight minutes into the visit and Tim had been out cold. Head back, newspaper on the floor, drooling, out cold. He'd heard a nurse come in four times to check on Jack. They brushed his teeth. Sponged him down. The whole shebang. At six thirty, the nurse returned, but only to wake him and tell him visiting hours were ending.

Now, Tim was placing dinner plates on the table for Alfred. He pushed the guilt away by telling himself his father probably wasn't even aware of his visits. And even if he were, that he wouldn't care. He hadn't cared before, so why would he now?

If Bruce hadn't of taken Tim in, Tim was not sure where he'd be. His father had left him no provisions. And if he'd had the time and thought to do so, he probably wouldn't have.

But Tim lived in a house of orphans. Aside from Damian, no one else had a father. How could Tim take that for granted? The Robin in him refused to let his father face his condition alone, even though Jack had given him nothing but life.

Such a people pleaser.

The table was nearly set when the doorbell rang. At eight with no calls made in advance, visitors were rare. Even for the Wayne's.

"I'll get that." Alfred said and Tim watched him, following at a distance.

In the foyer, Tim looked up to see that Jason stood at the top of the stairs, pulling on a clean shirt and looking down to also see who had come to the door.

Alfred was like the manors' most prized and beloved asset, and every member in the house took protective pride in making sure their butler/grandfather stayed safe at all times. Even doing simple things, like answering the door, warranted their overprotective and watchful eyes.

With Jason present, though, Tim went back to setting the table. Forks and knives and napkins must be placed to Alfred's liking before dinner could begin, and to date, Alfred had never had anything bad to say about Tim's table setting ability. He wouldn't give the man anything to say now, either.

A females voice drifted into the dining room, and though Tim was busy, he couldn't help but peek around the corner to see who had disturbed them at that hour. Immediately, the woman's face struck Tim as familiar, but he couldn't not recall where he'd seen her.

She was older in age, with gray hair that still held tendrils of blonde. She had a long black coat on that was buttoned from top to bottom, so Tim could not see her clothes, but she had simple, comfortable shoes on, leading Tim to believe she stood most of her days. Maybe she worked in an office, or a hospital.

"Good day, sir." the woman said, "I was hoping to speak to Mr. Wayne."

"Just a moment, please." Alfred responded.

Alfred shut the door gently and hurried down the hall. He stopped when he noticed Tim had been watching him and had seen their visitor.

"Breathe, master Timothy." he said, patting Tim's shoulder, "Just breathe."

Tim took a deep breath at Alfred's insistence and watched the man go to find Bruce. He hadn't noticed he'd been holding his breath. Shaking his head, he went back to setting the table. Bruce went through the dining room and opened the door to speak with the woman, but Tim didn't listen in this time. Words were exchanged and suddenly, the Bruce was back, a grimmer than usual look on his face.

He said nothing, though, sitting down at the table and Tim simply finished setting it around him. One by one his brothers filed down and helped bring the food to the table. When Alfred was satisfied that all was set, they all sat down to eat.

Tim poked and prodded at his food, listening as his brothers argued about whether Star Wars or Star Trek had more believable technology and which ideas the films had had actually came into existence.

The table fell into a short silence, as was usual, as everyone became too engrossed in their food to speak or argue, and Bruce used that time to clear his throat slightly, his way of showing he had something of more importance to say.

"I spoke to Oracle." Bruce said, his voice holding that eerie 'I know what you did' calmness that everyone dreaded hearing.

He looked at Tim across the table, "She walked you in last night?"

Tim choked on his water to such an extent that Alfred stood up to pat his back firmly. Of _all_ the things to make an announcement about, that had been the last thing Tim had suspected. Bruce hadn't addressed Tim in what felt like ever, and out of the blue, he has that to say? He'd thought he was in the clear about that.

"Explain." was all Bruce said, and suddenly his voice seemed to have a bite to it.

If there was anything Bruce didn't like, it was being lied to. Withholding information got you on his probation list. Small fibs got on his nerves to no end. White lies could get you put on punishment. But full blown lies? Unheard of in his presence.

All Tim could do was stare at him, before dipping his head down to stare at his plate. He couldn't decide, was silence better or was telling the truth? Silence might make the conversation seem personal enough to make Bruce drop it and come back later. But then, Tim was risking angering Bruce even further…

"It's my fault." Dick spoke up suddenly during the awkward silence, "I didn't get us to the spot on time and we missed the meeting. I sent Tim home and went on by myself."

Dick meant well, and Tim loved him for it, but he still spoke too fast, his voice still too high. His lie was apparent.

Bruce raised his eyebrow at Dick.

Dick didn't lie to Bruce, practically ever, so this came as a shock to everyone. Dick knew he couldn't lie to the man, so he didn't try. Until now.

But Dick made it worse, unknowingly. Tim could not let his brother get in trouble for lying when it was entirely Tim's fault. Especially when his lie was so obvious.

"No, he's lying." Tim spoke, looking up from his plate to Bruce.

"Shocking." Damian slurred, sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

"We did miss the meeting," Tim said, ignoring Damian, "But it was my fault. Dick got us to the spot on time, and we were set up, save for the mics. I left, though, and got distracted, and when Dick came to get me, we ended up missing the meeting."

Silence fell on the table and Tim returned his gaze back to his plate. He didn't want to see the faces he already expected to see. Jason's smirk of mirth (he always found joy in Tim's screw ups). Damian's knowing look he'd be giving Bruce (one that asked 'do you see what having _him_ as a partner gets you?'). The glare Alfred would give Bruce, (his silent way of pleading Bruce to go easy on him). And Dick's concerned staring at him.

Why had Bruce mentioned his mistake _now?_ Bruce was Bruce. He _knew_ Tim had probably messed up. So why embarrass him? Why wait until everyone was present at the dinner table? Did he not know that that was when he was usually picked on the most? Did he care that Jason and Damian would never let him live that down? Oracle walked Damian in sometimes, but only because he was the youngest. It was rare that she walked in anyone else. Her skills were needed elsewhere, she didn't have time to babysit, which is what Tim knew everyone saw it as.

Tim could feel all eyes on him and it was just all too much and all too heavy and all too… too _serious_. Too much tension. Too much sarcasm. Too much staring. Too much _glaring_ and _anger_ and _attention_ focused on his _mistakes_. _Always_ on his _mistakes_. Had he done something right, no one would care to comment.

But he made a mistake? Whoa and behold! Suddenly everyone's _interested_. _So very interested_. So interested, in fact, that the room was quiet to the point that you could hear a pin drop. You could hear _half_ a pin drop. A _quarter_ of a pin drop, even.

Tim couldn't take it. He _couldn't._

Quietly, he asked to be excused, standing before he got a reply and retired to his room. At least there he wouldn't be judged. At the table he would be stared at and judged and criticized. From the moment he'd become Robin, he'd been criticized and judged and under the scrutiny of every single person in the house, save for Dick and Alfred, maybe. A target seemed to be placed on him and any mistakes he made only got him closer and closer to being shot at.

How many more mistakes was he allowed before Bruce decided that being Robin was too great a challenge for him? How many more errors could he make before Bruce agreed with Damian, and relieved him of the burdens of wearing a mask? How long until Bruce felt he was unfit to fight by his side?

Compulsively, Tim began cleaning. An OCD habit he had, he cleaned relentlessly when he was upset. He couldn't count the amount of times Alfred had asked who'd rearranged the spice cabinet or Bruce's raised eyebrow at a reorganized filing system or Jason's yelling at the motorcycle magazines that had suddenly moved from his designated spot and put categorically with all the other magazines.

Closets got rearranged at night. Paperwork got filed. Jeans were ironed. Vases were dusted. Shoes were polished. Whatever Tim could get his hands on when he was upset never remained in it's current state for long. It was something Tim could do without deep thought, which allowed him to clear his head and relax. It was something he could do without help, and thankfully, alone. Being alone was always what he needed after getting himself worked up. He hoped he could get through the rest of the night undisturbed.

But after a dinner like that, Tim was only half surprised when Dick came to check on him about an hour later. It was not in his nature to just leave Tim alone.

"Knock, knock." came Dick's voice as he opened the door slowly. "What's up?"

Tim shrugged from the floor. He'd been reorganizing his bookshelf. It had been in alphabetical order, but suddenly, that wasn't organized enough. It needed to be color coded now, in size order, topic separated. And for the past 20 minutes, it literally had been all his mind had been obsessing over, and that had felt good.

As much as Tim loved his brother, at the moment, his presence only upset Tim. It brought him back to the real world. Reminded him that he was no one special and living in a world where he was less than wanted. A world where things were not alphabetically organized in size and color and topic order. This was a place where chaos reigned and order was a dream of the depressed.

It was not a place he wanted to be at the moment.

"You okay, Timmy?" Dick asked, coming in and closing the door behind him.

"Yeah, sure." Tim said, his eyes focused on the two books in his hands, as he gave his typical answer to that familiar question.

"You don't seem…" Dick started, "I mean, you just seem kind of… _not_ yourself. That's all."

"I'm alright," Tim said, closing his eyes tightly.

He wanted Dick to go away now. To leave him alone. To go be with the family Tim was never quite apart of. They all had a great time without him, and for the first time, that was what Tim wanted. He wanted to be left alone. Left in the dark. He wanted to think, and be miserable all on his own.

Dick's presence, for some reason, had him on the verge of tears. But he knew that if Dick left, he could get that under control and be fine. Fine, just fine. If only he were left alone. Left alone to organize. Tim pulled his knees up to his chest, closing himself off to the world Dick reminded him was there surrounding him.

Dick sat on the floor beside him and picked up a book. Tim could practically hear Dick trying to find the right words, but Tim already knew what Dick was going to say. He'd say Bruce hadn't meant to embarrass him. He'd say Bruce loved him. That Bruce was still learning how to speak to people, despite the act he put on in front of people outside the family. He'd say that Bruce would treat him like he always had when he figured out how to apologize. Bruce never went forward without a plan, and apologies were no different.

"Timmy, he'll get over it…" Dick tried, but Tim shook his head, resting it onto his knees.

"Don't bother, Dick. You always say I'm the smart one, well I can put two and two together. He's not gonna get over it. He doesn't get over _anything. Ever_. Every mistake I've ever made is logged in his mind and saved for later."

"He is _kind_ of like that." Dick admitted, "But that doesn't mean he doesn't love you. It doesn't mean Jason and Damian don't care about you, either. We're all just… different. You know that. We're affectionate in weird degrees and show it in weird ways. You _know_ that."

Dick set the book down and scooted closer to Tim. There was so much concern on his face that Tim knew this was a conversation Dick had been thinking of having long before that night. If anything, Tim could say Dick was perceptive. He could sense a sour mood from a mile away. He could smell when people were upset. He could hear the hurt in tones in voices.

Tim knew he was depressed, but he'd never thought of anyone else knowing it. He tried to hide it, but now it was painfully obvious that Dick knew it, too.

How bad did it hurt Dick to know there was nothing he could do about it? The thought hurt Tim, and he decided he'd strive to cause his elder brother as small amount of pain as he could manage. He had to hide his feelings better.

Which was all well and good in his mind, but simultaneously, Dick was very easy to talk to. And when he sat there, attentive and ready to do anything to help, it was hard to hide how you really felt.

"Yet you're still the only one I can really talk to," Tim found himself confessing, looking up at his brother, "I never expected Bruce to take the role of my father. I never _wanted_ him to. I saw what having children did to him, and I knew that if he got attached to me, I'd become a liability to him _and_ to Gotham. This was only a _job_ to me."

A job, Tim said, but honestly, he'd always known what the 'job' had included. He knew the danger of death and injury and expected them. But he knew the danger of getting attached to the team were just as imminent. He'd known that coming into the family. But he'd vowed to himself to see the position of Robin as nothing but a job.

And why shouldn't he? He had a home. A father. A life away from the team. Why should they accept him as a family member? He was a teammate.

All he'd had to do was keep his distance. Do his job, and go home. No relationships required.

When had he dropped that mentality? When did he grow attached to these people? When did he begin to wish to be apart of them? Why did he think they might accept him?

It must have started when he saw how they interacted with each other. When he saw how they cared and helped and actually loved each other, despite the tough exterior they all clung too.

Coming from a home devoid of emotion, that had appealed to him, and somehow, he'd dropped being jealous of them, and had attempted to infiltrate the tight-knit family they'd made.

How could he hate them for what was his own fault? He kidded himself into thinking he belonged with them.

"I wanted to help save Gotham." Tim sighed, staring at his bookshelf, "I wanted to do some good in my life, too. And while I knew Bruce wouldn't grow attached to me, I didn't expect to grow attached to him. I overlooked my own faults."

"Loving someone isn't a fault," Dick reassured him. "Bruce is unprecedentedly, impossibly, and undeniably one of the hardest people on planet earth to understand. But someone smart like you, it wasn't as hard for you to _get_ him as it was for us. You guys are kindred spirits. It would be hard for anyone who understood him like you _not_ to love him."

"But I already _have_ a father," Tim said, "He's _alive_. I'm already more fortunate that most of you. It just seems wrong that I can care about Bruce like I do when I feel nothing for my own flesh and blood."

Tim had never expressed that guilt aloud before. He _did_ have a father, which no one else had. He wasn't an orphan. He wasn't alone in the world. He had family. Yet, Bruce was still more of a father than Jack Drake was. If Tim had to choose between the two, if he could only save one of them, the greater good of Gotham and the world aside, Tim would choose Bruce. Without a doubt, he'd save the man that had taken him in when Tim had felt like he had nothing, over the man that had actually brought him into the world .

"Water can get thicker than blood, sometimes." Dick sighed, leaning back on his elbows, "But they say home is where the heart is. Family is where you're loved, Tim. It's where you feel safe. It's where you're taken care of and appreciated."

"But you and Alfred are the only ones who _care._ " Tim said, his voice cracking annoyingly, and Dick sat up, moving to put his arm around his brother.

No one should _ever_ feel that way about their family, and while Dick had always sensed Tim had felt out of place in the family, he hadn't known just how deeply it had hurt the boy.

"If that were true," Dick said, squeezing his brother and resting his chin on his brothers head, "which it isn't, but if it were, Alfred and I love you enough for all of us. And that's never gonna change, Timmy. _I'm_ never going to change. I'm not going anywhere."

A firm knock made Dick turn and face the door. When Jason swung it open, a cigarette in his mouth, Dick sat up.

"Put that out, Jason-" he tried, but Jason just tapped the cigarette over Tim's spotless carpet.

"Alfred wants you." Jason said, sucking on his cigarette again.

"I'll be down in a minute." Dick said, looking to see how Tim was taking Jason's blatant disregard for his cleanliness.

But Tim didn't even seem to notice. He was staring down into his lap, avoiding eye contact with Jason.

"He said now," Jason said, turning and walking away, "Something about the demon being sick."

Dick perked up at that. He nearly ran to the youngest Wayne right then and there, but he stopped when he remembered why he was in Tim's room in the first place. Damian was sick, but Tim really needed him at the moment too…

Tim realized it must be hard to care to the extent that Dick did. How far did he stretch himself for the comfort of others daily?

"Go ahead." Tim muttered, picking his books up and examining them.

"I'll sit with you a little while longer. Damian can wai-"

"Just go, Dick." Tim spat, his voice raw, but suddenly bitter.

"Timmy, just because-"

Dick was interrupted when Alfred called 'Master Dick' up the stairs, a sure sign that Alfred was too engaged to come up the stairs himself, which is what he'd normally do.

Dick bit his lip, emotional pain didn't usually trump physical pain. It was his responsibility, or so it felt, to help nurse Damian back to health as quickly as possible.

"I'll be back in a second, Timmy." Dick said, getting up and running out the room, "I promise, one second!"

Tim just kicked the door close behind Dick and went back to his books. He didn't care, honestly. Whether he told Dick all his fears and problems or not, nothing would change. Bruce would still hate him, and he'd still be the unwanted kid and the undeserving Robin.

* * *

Tim tried to spend his morning alone and out of everyone's way. He grabbed a book on scarabs and buried himself into the couch in a unused living room, wrapped tightly in a blanket. He studied alone a good chunk of his morning, but when Alfred came through dusting, Tim suspected his alone time wouldn't last much longer.

As he expected, Damian came through eventually, asking the butler about lunch that day.

"Lunch will be ready in an hour," Alfred said, picking up a vase, "As it _always_ is, master Damian."

Damian groaned, obviously hungry, and walked through the living room. He spotted Tim almost immediately and Tim just stared harder at his book. Maybe if he just ignored Damian, Damian would go away.

"Hiding amongst the other forgotten trash in this house?" Damian asked, and Tim just tried to read on.

"You may find yourself more at home in the backyard," Damian went on, offhandedly, "Near the trash cans would be appropriate."

"Damian-" Alfred warned, but the boy only _tsked_.

"He isn't family." Damian said, simply, "He is not really my brother. I am merely speaking to a roommate, technically."

"Technically, he _is_ your brother." Alfred said, "And as such, he deserves your respect."

Tim could think of four different ways for disappear without either Damian or Alfred noticing him.

"If he were as strong as you all _claim_ he is, then facts should not hurt him." Damian defended, "We are not blood, so we are not family. He is not adopted, so we are not brothers. I am merely stating facts."

"They are _tasteless_ facts." Alfred told him, "Things we don't need spelled out for us."

"He does not belong here." Damian said strongly, staring at Tim, "He is not an heir. This house, the company, _you_. It's _my_ right to inherit."

"He has as much right as you to be here," Alfred said sternly, storming into the living room, "As much right as master Dick, and master Jason, and master Bruce, and myself. He is _family_ master Damian, whether you like it or not."

"Grayson was here first." Damian said, turning to the man, "He has legal claims on that. If Jason had nothing to inherit, he'd more than likely become homeless again. Drake is capable of sustaining himself. That is not an insult."

"It is hurtful." Alfred defended.

Damian scoffed, his hands going to his hips. He and the butler often did not see eye to eye.

"Apologize." Alfred instructed, and Damian grumbled to himself.

Damian was not likely to apologize, but even if he did, Tim was gone when they both looked up. His book was discarded and the blanket had been folded neatly.

He really was good at disappearing.

* * *

"Give me that book on the counter, Replacement." Jason said when he saw Tim enter the room.

A few nights ago, he'd encountered an assassin known as Tychno. Tychno's suit had born a certain resemblance to ancient armor from the 18th century, which Jason was now studying up on from his tablet. He'd brought the book up from the library, but after finding some cookies Alfred had left on the counter, he'd promptly forgotten the book on the counter.

"Replacement. The book. Now." Jason said, looking up from his tablet.

Tim ignored him, flipping through the pages of the book himself, eating a cookie from the plate Alfred had left out. He hummed to himself, some classical song Jason supposed. Tim liked weird stuff like that.

" _Replacement_." Jason spat, annoyed. "My book."

When Tim ignored him this time, Jason grabbed one of his boots from the floor, and promptly chucked it at Tim's head.

Usually, Tim would have dodged or caught it. Jason hadn't even expected his boot to hit Tim in the side of the head, but when it did, he was torn between feeling a little guilty and feeling totally content with that outcome. He decided he didn't care, though, until Tim looked up at him, put his headphones back in, and left.

Tim literally hadn't heard him.

Jason pushed back any regret he had, got up, grabbed his boot, his book, and a cookie, and went back to his research.

* * *

Tim froze when he saw Bruce sitting by the fire reading. He'd gone to the library because he figured it would be empty and he liked being by the fireplace when he read. But now that he knew Bruce was here, he wanted to leave.

But leaving would be obvious, and Tim didn't want to be obvious. To be honest, he just wanted to be normal. He wanted everything to go back to being normal. Back when Bruce's company didn't make him feel sick. Back when sitting in silence was comfortable, not awkward. Back when he didn't feel like an outcast in his own home.

Tim didn't even mind sitting at the dinner table in silence anymore. He didn't mind Jason throwing things at him. And Damian doubting his worth. He'd go back to those times gladly, because at least then, he had Bruce and Dick and Alfred to tell him that none of that mattered and that he was still important to them. Three out of five on his side wasn't bad at all.

Now it felt like he had no one, and no matter how he tried to get back to that time when everyone made efforts with him, it seemed like he just pushed them all away.

Tim stalked into the room, going to the back where the mystery books were. It was hard to try and pretend to be inconspicuous when you knew the other person was hyper aware of your every move.

The isles in the mystery section were dark, save for a few flicks of light from the distant fireplace. When the lights in the section blew out, Dick had convinced everyone that they shouldn't be replaced. Darkness in the mystery section was ironic, and fun, and therefore, should not be messed with. Tim actually liked the idea, too, so he didn't mind needing a flashlight whenever he went to find one of his mystery novels.

He took his time searching, though. While reading by flashlight was not totally uncool to Tim, it was cold away from the fireplace and would be obvious if Tim went to his room to read. Would it really be so bad if Tim went and sat by the fireplace, too? It would hardly be the first time…

Tim took a deep breath. He didn't like being at odds with Bruce. He didn't like this tension and distance. He'd tried once before to make things right between them, and it had hurt him immeasurably to have failed how how he had. But now, he was finally ready to try again.

He would apologize, and tell Bruce exactly how he was feeling. He'd pretend he was talking to Alfred, because Alfred was the easiest person on planet earth to talk to. Maybe then, Bruce would look past his mistakes and be friendly with him again.

Grabbing a random book, Tim disregarded his want to read and made his apology to Bruce priority. He walked slowly to the fireplace, blindly staring at his feet as he rehearsed what he'd say in his mind. He would _make_ Bruce understand how sorry he was. He had to. He was _not_ a mistake and he was willing to prove it. He could. He _would_. He'd done it before.

Bruce didn't look up or acknowledge Tim when he sat on the floor in front of the chair adjacent to Bruce. His seating was habit. Dick usually sat in the chair and Tim would sit by him on the floor, leaning against his leg. The small bout of familiarity gave him a small boost of strength. He tapped his book rhythmically, and opened his mouth…

The second Tim opened his mouth, Bruce stood, closed his book, and silently walked out.

* * *

"I'm a bit preoccupied at the moment, master Timothy." Alfred said, searching through the seasoning cabinet while somehow simultaneously mincing garlic and onions. "I've got a party of 20 to cook for and the roast hasn't even gone into the oven. At least the chicken's done. I'll have _that_ on time, if nothing else. Where is that smoked paprika?"

"I can help…" Tim suggested, but Alfred didn't hear him, as he muttered to himself about possible horderves.

Bruce was always having impromptu guests. This time, it was a few reporters, some elite friends for show, and one of the presidential candidates for one of his charities. A small amount of business would take place in the study, but a majority of the evening Bruce would spend entertaining in the main living room. Dinner would be the highlight of the night and Alfred's cooking would be put on display.

He took that very seriously.

"I can cut those." Tim offered, when Alfred pulled some herb leaves off some of his plants.

"Chicken cordon blue for the main dish, I think." was all Alfred said.

Deciding that Alfred was too overwhelmed to hear Tim's offers of assistance, he decided he'd just jump in and help the man. Alfred probably didn't even know Tim was still there.

On the cutting board, a full onion was chopped, and another had been in the process of being chopped before Alfred had turned to another task. Tim could certainly chop onions, so he figured he could do that without much risk of screwing up.

When he finished that, Tim even chopped the herbs Alfred had pulled, and some more garlic, because no matter how much Alfred cut, he always needed more garlic.

Alfred still scampered around busily so Tim decided he'd clean up for Alfred, something Alfred _always_ appreciated, but stopped and turned around when he heard Alfred grunt.

"Good lord, that's heavy." the man said.

Alfred was struggling to hold the giant chicken he'd cooked. It smelled amazing, but it was easily one of the largest chickens Tim had ever seen Alfred make.

"I'll help you." Tim said, going to grab the tray from the man.

"No, no, don't-" Alfred tried, when Tim reached for it.

Tim had already grabbed the tray, though, but he dropped it immediately when it burned his hands, obviously having come straight from the oven. He hadn't even noticed that Alfred had on oven mitts.

The tray hit the ground loudly, and the giant bird bounced out of it, rolling a bit and hit Tim's foot.

Tim looked up from the floor slowly to Alfred, who was massaging his temples slowly and taking deep breaths.

"I'll clean that up…" Tim offered quietly, but Alfred shook his head.

"No, master Timothy," he said, calmly, "I think you've done enough."

Tim saw that coming. He nodded, backing out of the kitchen and heading down the hall and to the cave. He honestly hadn't meant to make Alfred's job harder. He'd just wanted to help.

Maybe he needed to _stop_ trying to help, though. Because clearly, he wasn't as good at it as he thought he was.

* * *

"Dick, can you wrap my hands?" Tim asked, holding them out so that Dick could see the forming blisters on them.

Honestly, Tim felt stupid asking for help. He could wrap his own hands easily, and he knew Dick knew that too. But Tim wanted to talk to him now. Wanted to tell him what a horrible day he'd had. About Damian, and Jason, and Bruce, and about how he'd messed up Alfred's dinner and burned his hands.

"What's wrong with your hands?" Dick asked absently, typing rapidly on his computer.

Usually, when Dick was down in the cave by himself, he was hard at work on something. He was a guy who liked company, and being by himself was never really something he sought out. But every now and then, even he needed enough solitude to get real work done.

Tim shook his hands at Dick, trying to show him the blisters, but Dick didn't look away from his screen, and Tim sighed.

"I burned them." he explained, "On a hot pan."

"Annnd... why are we touching hot fans?"

"No, _pan_ , Dick. I touched a hot pan."

"Where's Alfred?"

Probably still cleaning up chicken, something he didn't have time for.

"Upstairs."

The day Tim had had was not necessarily off the charts horrible. He was used to having bad days. But this particular day, for some reason, seemed especially disappointing at the moment. He just wanted Dick to hear him speak about it. Maybe if he said it aloud, it wouldn't seem so bad. Dick was good at taking the scrutinized situations Tim had overanalyzed and brushing over them with a optimistic brush.

Damian said he didn't belong?

Well, Damian was raised by assassins. Jason grew up on the street. Bruce was filthy rich. Dick had grown up in the circus. There family wasn't what anyone would consider 'normal'. Tim fit right in.

Jason threw a boot at him?

Jason throws things all the time. It's kind of well known that he a temper. Just dodge it next time.

Bruce got up and left?

Maybe he was done reading. Maybe he was too hot by the fire. Maybe he didn't want Tim to feel uncomfortable. Who knows with Bruce. It was a headache to try and understand everything he did.

Messed up Alfred's dinner?

Mistakes happen. Alfred gets that. Maybe Tim should stop trying so hard. If he had, he'd of noticed Alfred's oven mitts and he wouldn't have dropped the chicken. He just needed to relax.

 _That,_ was the conversation Tim needed to hear right now. It was those comforting words that would slow his reeling mind and could help him put his mind back into a little more order. Calm the panic he felt right around the bend. Relax the anxiety and tension he couldn't seem to get rid of.

"...what'd you say?" Dick asked, "Who's upstairs?"

"Alfred is," Tim repeated.

"Could you ask him to do it, Timmy? I'm kinda right in the middle of something right now."

"He's busy, Dick."

"Kay, cool. Thanks."

Tim squinted his eyes a bit, but left to wrap his own hands. He knew better than to try and interrupt someone 'in the middle of something' now. It was better for everyone if he just left them alone.

* * *

Okay, so a few things we notice in this chapter.

The main is this: Tim is starting to have a bit of a mental shift. A few things is clearly flawed in his logic, though he may 'think them through' in a way he may _think_ is logical. Example: a lot of his depression is stemming from feeling lonely, despite Dick proving again and again that he's there for Tim, no matter what.

That, people, is what one would call low-grade insanity. A person doing the same, repeated thing, expecting a different outcome every time. A person disregarding a proven fact, to feel oppressed or to take on the role of the victim.

Now, it isn't Tim's fault, but it's still unlike him and wrong, which, luckily, Dick seems to notice.

At this point, I'd take Tim's logic and point of view with a grain of salt. He may seem fine, and his thoughts may seem clear, but that doesn't mean he's sane.

Cheers!


	6. When the Party's Over

Welcome back!

I won't waste time, so, enjoy and leave a review! They motivate me!

* * *

Tim figured he could get get dressed for the party right about now. Alfred and Bruce were pretty specific about appearance when reporters would be present.

On his way to his room, though, he spotted Damian, who was usually dressed in his monkey suit long before anyone else. Yet, now he had on sweats and a t-shirt.

"You're not dressed," Tim said, "aren't we going down to the party?"

"Not our particular kind of crowd." Damian said simply, going down the hall to his room.

Every other blue moon or so, if the invited crowd was particularly rambunctious or rowdy or raunchy, Bruce allowed them to skip the party. Which basically meant they could hide in their rooms until everyone went home. Which was awesome. Tim hated parties. It was nothing but a bunch of phony people acting phony and expecting you to act phony right back.

It was forced interaction. The worst kind of interaction. Right now, skipping the party was a relief, and Tim happily went into his room to read until Alfred came up and gave the all clear.

* * *

"Where you been, kiddo?" Dick asked, leaning against Tim's door frame, "I've been looking for you all night."

Tim looked up from his book to see Dick was in a full suit, his tie hanging around his neck and his top buttons undone, a sure sign that the party was over.

"I thought we weren't going down to the party…" Tim said, getting out of bed.

"Guess you weren't invited." Jason said, pulling his tie off as he walked by.

"Why wouldn't we?" Dick asked.

"Damian said Bruce said we didn't have to."

"I said no such thing." Damian said, going to stand beside Dick. "I said that wasn't our particular crowd. Which it isn't."

"It _never_ is." Dick told him, but Damian shrugged.

"Just as well," Damian said, "He doesn't belong downstairs, anyway."

"Damian." Dick scolded.

"It's true, Grayson, and everyone knows it. If he belonged down there, Bruce would have sent for him. One of us would have come to get him. Actions would have been made to bring him down if that was where he needed to be."

" _I_ looked for him," Dick countered, "Every chance I got."

"Yet you didn't come up and check his room." Damian said.

Apparently satisfied with those as parting words, Damian left to go to his room and change.

Tim was stuck. He'd have been gone if he'd had somewhere to go. But he was in his room. Where could he run to?

"Don't listen to Damian," Dick said, "I'm jealous of you, and I think he is, too. You got away with skipping one of those stupid parties. That's never been done."

 _Probably because Bruce cared about everyone else._

Dick walked in and flopped on Tim's bed. His overachieving attempt at being normal only made Tim feel worse. He'd never wanted to have been at a party more. He wondered why no one had come to get him as he stared down at the book on his bed.

He hadn't realized he'd grabbed _Top 50 Most Unfortunate Mysteries_ until he'd left the library. That was sure to cheer him up. All the same, he found story after story of graphic, gruesome, and of course, unfortunate, murders and suicides somehow intriguing.

"What happened to your hands?" Dick asked, sitting up some.

Tim didn't answer, he just grabbed his book and left.

He thought about heading down to the cave, but decided against it. Bruce would be down there preparing for patrol right now with Alfred. It was probably best if Tim sat the night out. If his day was any indicator, he should probably take a break from helping people.

The library would be free, now. The study would be free. In an hour or so, the entire house would be free. As everyone went out to be heroes, he'd stay in to be alone. He _could_ monitor with Alfred, but then, maybe not.

Tim jumped when Dick grabbed his arm and spun him around.

"Hey," he said, "What'd I say?"

Tim furrowed his eyebrows. He couldn't help but feel angry at his brother. And at himself. How could he be truly angry at a man who'd been busy working to save lives? How could he be angry that his brother didn't stop to help him do something he could do himself? He hadn't _told_ Dick he'd wanted to talk. Dick hadn't known.

"It's nothing." Tim said, shaking his head.

Of course, he _could_ be angry that his brother hadn't come to get him for the party. He'd 'claimed' he'd been looking for Tim, but even Damian would figure Tim was in his room. That's just common sense.

Did Dick miss him at all? Had he even looked for him? Or had he just said that to try and hide his true intent? Did he not believe Tim belonged downstairs with his family like everyone else?

"Come on, _Timmy_. Don't be _frowny_." Dick smiled, grabbing his other arm and shaking him.

He was playing now, legitimately believing Tim was just being pouty.

"Give me a hug." he said, trying to pull Tim to him, but Tim dug his heels in, "Come on, let's hug it out."

Resistance made Dick smile harder. He loved a challenge.

"Come on, Timmy." he said, "Don't be angry."

At this point, Tim would usually smile. He'd laugh. He'd tell Dick to get a life. To leave him alone. He'd tickle his brother and run when Dick let him go. That was how their games went. That was how their arguments ended. That was normal.

But Tim didn't feel playful, and when he pulled at his arms, trying to get away from Dick, Dick didn't get the message that this was no ordinary game. He didn't let Tim go or loosen his grip.

"Let me go, Dick." Tim said, struggling against his brother.

"I'm not gonna let you go until you hug me." Dick smiled. "Come on, one hug."

"Let me go." Tim said, yanking his arms until they hurt.

"Never." Dick said, digging his heels in, "Never. I'm gonna get my hug. You know I run on hugs."

" _Now_ , Dick." Tim said, and the firmness in his voice made Dick frown, and his grip loosened.

Using the book he still held and his loose arms, Tim smashed his book into Dick's face, and the boy fell back onto his butt in surprise.

A rough hand gripped Tim's upper arm hard, and Tim looked to see Bruce had appeared at some point.

Tim's eyes widened and his mouth opened, but he had nothing to say to the man to explain hurting his brother.

"Let him go, Bruce." Dick said, getting up.

Bruce let Tim go begrudgingly, and Tim slipped away and ran down the stairs. He heard the whole conversation in his head, and he didn't want to hear it aloud. He could imagine Dick blaming himself. Claiming he hadn't listened to Tim when he'd told him to stop. He could imagine Dick saying that Tim hadn't missed the party on purpose. He imagined Dick explaining what Jason and Damian had said to him just a few moments ago. He imagined Dick defending him.

Dick had _always_ defended Tim. And for what? For Tim to smack him in the face with a eighty chapter novel. And why? Because Dick had wanted a hug?

Tim paused on the stairs as he thought that over.

Everything said about him was right, wasn't it? He was a nuisance. He wasn't special. He wasn't useful. He wasn't blood, he wasn't helpful, he was no hero. All he was… was in denial. In denial that even now, he still had a chance to redeem himself. To make things right. To fix his mistakes and somehow, get back into the family he'd never truly felt apart of.

Shaking his head, Tim ran down the rest of the stairs and to the library. The fire in the fireplace was dying but Tim didn't mind. The darker the easier to hide.

Dick would come searching for him. Of course he would. But Tim couldn't face him yet. He'd _hurt_ him.

True, Dick could take pain remarkably well. He'd been shot and stabbed and had broken bones and snapped ribs and sprains and dislocations and practically every other injury one would expect from a hero. A book to the face was no more than a poke to him.

Yet, Tim had never seen such shock and pain on Dick's face. Such surprise. Someone he cared about had hurt him on purpose, and that had likely hurt him more mentally than physically.

Climbing up the bookshelves, Tim made his way to the rafters that crossed the ceiling. It was a spot he'd always kept on reserve in case he really wanted to disappear. No one would find him here for sure.

It was too dark to read so high with such a small fire, so Tim closed his eyes and reimagined the hundreds of ways he could have _not_ hit Dick in the face while still getting his point across. Why had he done that?

"Tim?" came a voice, and Tim knew Dick had finally come to find him.

"Tim, it's time to suit up." Dick said, coming into the room. "We're all about ready to leave, you're late."

Tim said nothing, watching Dick go up and down the aisles looking for him. He seemed to know Tim was there, yet he didn't go to extremes to find him. Did he sense Tim didn't want to be found?

"I'm sorry I tried to make you hug me." Dick said loudly, "I thought we were playing."

 _You were,_ Tim thought, and that was enough for him to forgive Dick. But it was not Dick who truly needed to be forgiven. It was Tim. And at the moment, Tim was still not ready to face the eldest, or forgive himself.

He didn't deserve Dick's kindness and love.

Dick sighed when he got no answer. He turned to leave, but before walking out, he threw a few logs on the fire and stoked it until it roared, breathing light and life and warmth into the library once again. He didn't look back as he left to save the city.

The moment he was gone, Tim wished he'd come back and try to find him just one more time. Tim promised himself he'd respond if he did. He honestly didn't _want_ to be alone. He wanted to go. He wanted to be with his family. He wanted to be Robin and be a hero. And do good.

But Dick didn't come back, and Tim ended up sitting up in the rafter far into the morning. They always returned around three, though. Two if it were a slow night. So around one, Tim tiptoed down to the cave to see how they were all faring. He could watch on the monitors just briefly enough to make sure they were alright and didn't need him, which was unlikely, then he could sit up amongst the bats until everyone returned home.

Then maybe he'd speak to Dick. Apologize for his behavior. At this point, he ought to be pretty good at apologies.

Alfred's voice carried through the cave as he spoke to Batman, delivering news and data and information. Tim followed that voice down the stairs and into the main area. His plan had just been to observe the monitor from afar, then he'd go back to hiding in the rafters, but passing the costume display cases, he froze.

Batman's suit was gone. Nightwing's suit was gone. Red Hoods suit was gone. But so was Robin's. Tim stopped in front of his own display case, staring at the emptiness. Who would take his suit?

"Alfred?" he called, any embarrassment he'd had about earlier gone, suddenly, "Where's my suit?"

Suits was something no one played with. They all took their alter ego costumes very seriously. No one had touched Jason's Robin costume since _he'd_ last wore it, and no one had thought to. Tim didn't think neither Jason nor Damian would venture that far.

"Alfred?" Tim called again, going to speak to the man.

Maybe Alfred decided to clean it. He was the only one who really knew how to get _every_ stain out of the suit.

"Yes, master Timothy?" Alfred asked, his fingers flying across the keyboard, "How can I help you?"

"Where's my suit, Alfred?" Tim asked, walking towards him, "It isn't in it's case."

"Your suit?" Alfred asked, but the tone in his voice made Tim stop where he was.

He furrowed his eyes and was about to ask again before he glanced up at the monitor screens.

Red Hood had just jumped down into some sewers. Nightwing was roof hopping. Batman had his binoculars out, observing a warehouse, and Damian was right beside him. No, _Robin,_ was right beside him.

Tim gasped, backing up, as he stared up at the boy in his clothes with his name. Tears automatically sprang up as he tried to decipher what this meant, and why it was done, and who's idea it might have been, and how long it would all last, and what he'd done to deserve it, and how he could fix it, and whether or not it could be fixed, and whether something was broken (beside him) to begin with.

That was _his_ suit. Designed, created, _stitched,_ by him. He'd followed Dick and Jason's base designs, but the end product had been more him than them. That was _his_ suit! And his name. He'd worked for that name. Sweat for that name. _Bled_ for that name. He _deserved_ it. He earned it. It was something he honored and treasured. Something he could always say was his, and he was.

And now… it was ripped away from him? Given away without his consent? Without his knowledge, even? Who was Damian to steal it from him? No one had a _right_ to touch his things. His suit. His _life._ He was Robin. _He_ was Robin. He was the boy behind the mask. The voice behind the taunts. The muscle behind the punches. Robin was a symbol, and Tim was apart of what made that symbol true.

 _How could Bruce let that happen?_

"Master Timothy," Alfred said, his voice calm and soothing, but Batman said something to him and priorities had to be organized and followed through with.

Alfred turned away as he went back to helping Batman with whatever he needed.

All the same, Tim couldn't watch Damian… _Robin…_ masquerade in a suit with a name and title he hadn't yet earned. Running around with Batman in a city he didn't claim. With the father he didn't deserve.

Tim turned on his heels and ran up the stairs and didn't stop running until he'd locked himself in his room. He was out of breath and found it hard to breath, but he knew it wasn't from his run. He sat on his bed and put his head between his legs as he tried to calm down.

Maybe this was how Jason felt. Betrayed. Forgotten. Lost. But Jason had been _dead_ when Tim had become Robin. Jason had been honored, remembered, symbolically buried. Tim had become Robin to calm that void and anger and sadness and guilt Batman had felt. He'd done it for the greater good.

But Tim was not dead. He was not missing. He was not gone. He was _here._ Always here, but never seen. And never remembered. But always forgotten. And no one bothered to stand up and say 'stop, this isn't right'. Or 'wait, let's think about this'. Not even Dick stood up for him this time.

* * *

It was nearing three thirty and after staring at his ceiling and being trapped in his brain, Tim decided he'd see his family's return. Very rarely did he not go on patrol with them. They usually all left together and returned together. When one was left behind, be he hurt or sick, it was kind of tradition for him to greet the family when they returned.

Tim kept to the rafters, though. He'd be present, but not truly, which is what he was used to being anyway. Right on time, the batmobile and cycles sped into the cave, glistening with fresh rain water.

Exiting their vehicles, they were all abuzz with the apparent victory of a dual battle between Bane and Clayface, a battle that guaranteed both a dirty and a tiring night. But it was a nice victory, all the same. One they didn't get very often.

Bruce warned them all to stay vigilant and not to let this win go to their heads, but he only warned them once, allowing them to come down off their hype in their own time.

Tim simply watched from the rafters as they recounted what had just happened to each other. Even Alfred, who'd been on the monitors had had _some_ part in the victory. Damian, more talkative that Tim had ever seen him, spoke animatedly with Dick about some super cool teammate move they'd pulled off, and Dick ruffled his hair, promising to practice that move with him again later that day.

Tim made his way back to his room before they calmed down and dispersed and he was spotted.

He should have stayed in his room from the start. Then, he'd have no idea of what had happened, and he could have been considerably less miserable.

He wiped at his eyes, angry and frustrated. He hadn't even realized he'd been crying until he saw his pants were splattered with water.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd cried.

A gentle knock hit at his door, and Tim didn't bother to get up. He might have pretended to be asleep, but when Dick came in Tim knew it wouldn't have been any use anyway. Dick was known to wake people up just to say hello, and now would have been no different.

"Timmy…" Dick sighed, seeing him, and closing and locking the door behind himself as he came in.

"I'm fine." Tim lied, wiping his face and staring up at the ceiling. "Just make sure he washes _my_ suit."

"This was nothing personal, Tim." Dick said, sitting on the edge of Tim's bed, "Bruce just wanted to see how he'd fare with a target on his back. You know how people look at Robin. He's always in the limelight. Bruce wanted to see how Damian'd react."

Tim said nothing, continuing to stare up, but he frowned harder as a fresh batch of tears came.

"Timmy, you didn't come." Dick said, "That was your choice. It was an opportunity Bruce decided to take to test Damian. You're still Robin. Nothing's changed."

That was both good and terrible to hear.

"Nothing's changed, Tim." Dick repeated, and he grabbed Tim's arm, a prelude to a hug, but Tim decided last second that he didn't want it.

He pulled away, getting out of bed and going to open his window. Fresh air would help squelch his never ending tears that was beginning to give him a headache.

"Don't." Dick scolded gently as Tim knelt in front of his window, "Don't push me away."

Tim said nothing.

* * *

 _Tim was tied down to a table. A bright spotlight above him made opening his eyes painful and the restraints on his wrists hurt as they cut into his wrists. They were raw, liked he'd been pulling at them for hours. His entire body felt on fire, and he groaned. His throat was dry, and it hurt, but his lungs felt like they were on fire. Like they pumped poison and fed it to every cell in his body._

 _What would calling for help do? Would someone come to help him? Probably not. He could not remember where he was or how he'd gotten there, but good people didn't tie other people to tables. He was probably on his own._

" _I see you're awake." came a calm voice, and it sent shivers down Tim's spine._

" _Who are you?" he croaked, and the figure approached out of the darkness, a medical mask hiding a majority of his face as he peered down at Tim._

 _The figure was dressed in a full surgical uniform, hat and gloves included. But the once pristine and white suit was stained in blood, and Tim had a sinking suspicion that the blood was his own._

 _What had happened to him?_

" _I am what you ought to be." the man said, cryptically. "I'm what you're_ meant _to be."_

" _Crazy?" Tim asked, and the man laughed hard and breathless, before nodding._

" _Exactly."_

" _What've you done to me?"_

" _Oh, you like it?" the figure asked, "I thought a new nose wasn't enough, y'know? Gotta start with fixing what's on the inside, before you judge the outside, right?"_

 _This guy was definitely crazy. Certifiably crazy._

" _What. Have. You. Done?" Tim asked, and the man slapped him hard on his chest._

 _Tim felt like he could feel his heart rattle. He took a gasping, shaking breath. It was like he was submerged under water and forced to breathe. He was drowning. He was_ dying _. Every breath hurt and every bone ached._

" _Put some things in," the man laughed, "Took some things out. Little this, little that. But every ingredient has a pinch of looooove!"_

 _Joker. Tim decided this character reminded him of the Joker. He was mad. Crazy. Never appeared to have a plan or focused thought, but it always turned out that he was more capable than anyone ever thought. He was a lunatic, and was not to be underestimated._

 _Hadn't… hadn't he been kidnapped by the Joker? Not too long ago, actually. He could not remember what had happened… but… this was familiar._

" _Do you like to sing?" the man asked, "I've a got a great voice myself. You know what I hate? People who think they can sing, but can't. Now, people who know they can't sing but do anyway? They're my favorite kind of people."_

" _What do you want with me?" Tim asked, and the man rolled his eyes._

" _So forward. So to the point. So uptight._ **That** _is why you need me, kid. You need to be freed from that bird cage you call life. You need a little chaos. Being so serious'll only get you wrinkles and grey hair."_

" _And how're_ _ **you**_ _going to fix that?" Tim asked. "Maybe I_ _ **like**_ _being that way."_

" _Who you kidding, kid? Even the butler knows you try too hard. You'll see. The only way to win, is to not try at all!"_

" _Nothing gets done that way."_

" _Yes, and I applaud you right now for getting so much done nowadays."_

 _The man slow clapped and Tim furrowed his eyebrows. Suddenly, that voice sounded a bit familiar._

" _But back to the question," the man said, "You wanna know the 'how' of this little operation, pun intended. Well, take a look and see for yourself."_

 _In movies, dramatic lights, creepy music, and well placed slow mo's make things obvious to the viewer. You_ _ **know**_ _the thing's in the closet well before the protagonist. You_ _ **know**_ _she shouldn't go downstairs. You_ _ **know**_ _he shouldn't turn around. But they do anyway, and no matter how prepared_ you _are, you're still afraid when whatever happens, happens._

 _That was exactly how Tim felt as he looked down at himself. No matter what he expected, the gaping hole in his chest, the whistling the hole in his lungs made, the sight of his own beating heart… Tim could never have been prepared to see that, and the moment he did, he screamed._

* * *

 _And he kept on screaming into wakefulness._

 _He sat up in bed, staring out at the blackness of his room and trying to steady his painfully rapid heartbeat. He clutched his chest, forcing every breath. It burned, but not nearly as bad as breathing in his dream had._

" _You've got a raspy scream, you know that?"_

 _Tim turned his lamp on to see who spoke, and gasped when he saw the doctor standing by his window._

" _What are you doing here?" Tim asked, and the doctor shrugged._

" _This my room." he said, and pulling off his mask, he revealed himself to be a horrifying version of Tim himself._

 _The man Tim had previously thought to be grown, was actually no older than 19. He had pale white skin and yellowed teeth. He had a bloody red smile and vibrant green hair that fell out and uncurled when the boy removed his hat. And yet, he also had Tim's blue eyes._

 _Seeing a version of himself as the Joker was enough to give Tim nightmares for a long time._

 _Tim screamed again._

* * *

And when Tim woke, still screaming, his voice was raw. It hurt to breathe. His heart beat out of his chest. And yet, there was something else different. Something… strange and unusual that he couldn't put his finger on, and that frustrated and bothered him.

It was how he felt when he woke up after his kidnapping. Confused though healthy overall, but something wrong nudging at the back of his mind.

Shaking his head, he recited pi, something that had always seemed to calm him. Some people counted to ten. He recited pi. It did not work this time, though, and he tossed and turned all night.

* * *

Morning had come with a vengeance. Nightmares didn't make for very good sleep, and Tim was exhausted when his alarm went off. He felt he had little to no energy, despite not having done much lately. After his nightmare that night, if he wasn't thinking about his nightmare, he was replaying all the ways he could have dealt with Dick better. He hadn't said ten words to Dick when he'd returned for the night, despite Dick's constant attempts to have a real conversation with him.

Dick had been angry, frustrated, clearly devastated at Tim's lack of response, but at some point, he'd said goodnight and gone to bed. It made Tim furious with himself. For the entire first part of the day, all Tim had wanted had been to speak to Dick. But every time Dick had tried to speak to him, Tim hadn't wanted to talk.

It was that exhaustion and stress and anxiety that made the impossible, the improbable thing in front of him, somehow seem unpanic worthy. It made the figure before him, the figure that clearly was so wrong, go by with just a shrug. It made him blink several times at the figure that sat criss cross at the foot of his bed, but did not shake him like it ought to.

Green hair, pale skin, a permanent grin on his face- the Joker version of himself said nothing and did not move. He wore a old, tattered t-shirt Dick had given Tim and Tim's favorite pair of sweatpants. Tim only stared. It stared right back.

Obviously, this was not real. No matter how real it seemed and looked, it was not. He'd thought he was awake before only to be proven wrong. This had to be the same situation. Or maybe this was just his own exhaustion causing this hallucination. Regardless, Tim got up, ignoring the illusion, and grabbed some clothes for after his shower.

The Joker illusion got up and followed him. It watched as he brushed his teeth. It watched while he took his shower. As he dressed. As he read his book on his bed. Tim didn't acknowledge him. He found it creepy, without a doubt, but acknowledgement would fortify the existence of the illusion, and that was not what Tim wanted.

A part of him knew he ought to be more concerned about this. He ought to tell Bruce, or at least Dick, about what he was seeing. Hallucinations were not normal, and warranted medical help and assistance immediately. But Tim could not drag himself down the hall or to make himself call or text Dick, though he knew Dick expected nothing less of him.

For now, the illusion was silent, simply watching him, and if Tim tried hard, he could ignore it. There was no reason to get worked up about it, or tell anyone about it, or freak out about it. It would go away on it's own. Tim was sure of it.

Tim would have skipped breakfast if Alfred hadn't demanded Tim be present. Tim didn't know _why_ since everyone seemed happier when he wasn't present, but even now, feeling more miserable than he could ever remember himself feeling, he still couldn't find it in himself to disobey an order.

When Alfred had come to tell him to come down, he hadn't said anything about the illusion that had watched from his spot on the floor. It had sat there with that gruesome grin and steady eyes that gave the illusion of knowing many things you didn't.

While Tim knew the illusion was just an illusion, it was a relief to have that confirmed.

Tim shook his head at himself as he headed down the stairs and to the dining room. He hadn't bothered to comb his hair, but his jeans and t-shirt were spotless and pressed. The result of his stress. He'd even ironed his sweat pants.

The Joker illusion followed him silently, taking two and three stairs at a time and beating him to the bottom of the stairs. Then he waited, letting Tim lead the way.

Tim didn't look at him. Didn't acknowledge him. He looked real, but that was all. He blinked and seemed to breath but he didn't need food. Or water. Or air. Or anything, because he wasn't real. He wasn't real.

He wasn't real.

"So, what'll we call you now?" Jason asked, when Tim entered the room, "Guess you can be 'Robin Too'? Or maybe, 'That Other Guy'."

Tim ignored Jason, but as he looked around, he realized Dick wasn't at the table, which made Tim nervous. Dick was always the most vocal to defend Tim. Who would protect him now?

The illusion pulled out Dick's typical chair and sat in it. He leaned on his fist, smiling, and staring at Tim.

Tim gauged Jason's face as one that was slightly irritated (totally normal) and teasing. Clearly, he didn't see the illusion either.

"You missed a rather successful night, Drake." Damian spoke, pouring syrup on his French toast.

"What's that old saying...? The success is only useful if you know the cause?" Jason asked, "I think we all know the cause of last night's success."

" _Douche bag,"_ the illusion said, rolling his eyes, and Tim jumped, startled.

It hadn't spoken before, and hearing his own voice come out of it had nearly given him a heart attack.

Tim took a shuddering breath and shook his head, sitting down at the far end of the table, away from everyone. Bruce was reading the newspaper as he sipped at his coffee. He was dead to the world when he read his paper.

"I believe I'll grow into your suit well." Damian said, off hand, "It doesn't fit me bad at present."

Annnnd that straw broke the camel's back. Tim got up from the table quickly and left. Dick and Alfred were in the kitchen talking when he passed. Tim could only mutter an apology to Alfred before running upstairs to his room.

He'd rather starve than sit at that table.

* * *

Honey? Where's my super suit?

Cheers!


	7. It's Funny

**Did somebody order an update?**

* * *

Tim had spent the entire day reading his mystery novel in his room. He hadn't come down to eat or socialize or even get a drink of water. Usually, Alfred would bring something for him to eat or at least drink. But his lack of assistance meant he wanted Tim to come down. Something that wasn't happening.

Though there were moments when he wondered if going down was really as bad as sitting in his room with the illusion.

"Speak." Tim told him, looking up from his book randomly, "Say something."

The illusion showed his teeth as he smiled brightly, but he said nothing, like this was all a game to him, and he was winning.

His illusion hadn't said a word since Tim had gone down to breakfast. Now, he just walked around the room. He looked out the window. He stared at Tim. He even used the bathroom, once.

It made Tim shut his eyes and shake his head. He referred to the illusion as an illusion because he knew it wasn't real. Though it _felt_ real, it wasn't. Though it _looked_ real, it couldn't be. Yet, every minute, Tim seemed to forget that a little more and his illusion seemed to become just a bit more real. A bit more relatable. And honestly, his illusion was kind of funny. What, with his smile and eye rolls. He was sarcastic, which Tim thought humorous. And clearly, he was braver than Tim.

Tim would never call Jason a douche bag to his face.

Tim hadn't seen anyone besides his illusion all day, but nearing the end of the evening, Alfred came up to personally instruct Tim to come down for dinner.

"Alfred, _please_." Tim begged, " _Please_ don't make me go back down there."

"Five minutes!" Alfred called over his shoulder as he headed back down the stairs.

He knew Tim would follow. And Tim hated himself for doing just that. He was willingly feeding himself to the lions. But with any luck, he would go ignored, and every one would carry on around him like they used to. And that would be that and he could eat and pretend like everyone at the table didn't hate him.

Why did everyone think putting Tim _back_ into these situations would somehow cute and fix things? Why did Dick and Alfred think talking about things and expressing himself and being forced to be with Bruce and Damian and Jason would just make them come together and be friends and family?

In the dining room, Dick had set the table, clearly. Plates were put as if he'd thrown them. Forks were to the left of all the plates. Napkins were definitely tossed. Cups were all over the place. Alfred would permit the sloppiness only because this was honestly Dick's best effort. When it came to food, he was typically in such a rush to eat that nothing else made sense or mattered. Making him reset the table would only lessen his effort.

"I found my 16th century assassin," Jason said, taking a seat at the table, "His head was cut off. I found his body two blocks away."

"Ew," Dick said, "Decapitation isn't really dinner conversation."

"It is in this house." Damian said, "What cut his head off, Todd?"

"Some kind of curved sword," Jason shrugged, "I found that down one of the sewers."

Tim managed to get placed between Dick and Alfred, no doubt their attempt to make this easier and possibly more normal for him. The moment Bruce joined the table, though, there was something off about him. He kept his head down. He had little wrinkles between his eyebrows. He didn't look at anything but his folded hands on the table.

Tim saw it easily on Bruce's face, and it seemed that Alfred had also taken note. But neither said a word. Instead, Tim watched Bruce silently as his brothers ate and bickered lightly.

"...I just didn't like school that much," Dick shrugged. "I don't see you fighting to get into college."

"I've seen enough preppy rich kids to last me _two_ lifetimes." Jason retorted, "So no 'effin way."

"Maybe _you'll_ like it, though." Dick suggested, "Police academy was… _kind_ of fun."

"That requires me getting up early, which is already two strikes in my book."

"Todd is incapable of regulated schedules." Damian spoke up, and Jason smacked the table, smiling.

"Thank you, demon child." he said, "See? I don't do schedules."

"But police work is a great cover up for a hero." Dick suggested, "You could be a detective. Or a _cop_."

"I'm not gonna be a freakin' cop with you, so _stop it._ "

"We can _all_ be cops!" Dick tried, and Jason just groaned massaging his temples.

Bruce cleared his throat, suddenly, and the table went quiet.

Tim had been waiting for Bruce to say _something._ He hoped it might be along the lines of a vacation. The family could use one. Maybe Tim could take that time to reset himself. Get himself back on track.

No talk of a vacation went up, though. Instead, Bruce put his water down, folded his hands, and looked at Tim hard.

Tim swallowed, putting his own fork down. This was the most attention he'd gotten from Bruce in what felt like a long time. In his mind, Tim heard Bruce apologize for his cold and demeaning behavior. Tim heard Bruce say that he was sorry for his actions. Tim heard Bruce say that he wanted things to go back to the way they were. Tim heard heard Bruce say that he was glad, lucky, even, to have Tim on his team.

The illusion had been standing behind Tim all of dinner and had been easy to ignore, but now he walked around the table and stood beside Bruce. He watched Tim from there, and Tim focused on not staring at it. That would be obvious, and Tim didn't need his family thinking he was seeing things in addition to all his other problems.

"Tim," Bruce, said, and Tim sat up straighter.

He put the illusion from his mind and got himself prepared to forgive Bruce. Prepared to smile again. Prepared to blush at the attention of everyone at the table. Prepared for Damian to roll his eyes. For Jason to snort. Prepared to have Dick clap, or something else more extra than Tim required.

"Tim," Bruce said again, his eyebrows furrowed, and Tim couldn't help a small, miniscule smile.

Bruce was seriously having a hard time apologizing. It was sad, but also a little amusing. Touching, too. Tim must have honestly meant something to Bruce for Bruce to apologize so publicly and vocally. This was not a mere pat on the shoulder. This was a freaking _Grammy_.

"Tim, you're father is dead."

Dick reacted first, with a disbelieving gasp. The glass he'd held in his hand shattered as he dropped it to the floor.

Alfred covered his mouth, looking back and forth between Bruce and Tim.

Jason and Damian, for once, said nothing. They didn't stop eating, but they didn't say anything either.

Tim blinked at Bruce. Once. Twice. A third time. His small smile fell and he repeated the sentence again and again in his head, but it seemed like he just couldn't quite wrap his head around it.

'Tim, you father is dead'. That was so straightforward. So direct and precise. Exactly how he liked things. There was nothing else the sentence could mean, and yet, Tim found himself slow to understand it.

His father… was dead. Dead. Dead. Not alive. Deceased. Unliving, which wasn't a word, but Tim found it oddly easier to believe.

"How long ago?" Jason asked, his mouth full of food.

Tim turned to him slowly, a question forming in his mind in slow motion. _What did Jason care?_

"A nurse stopped by yesterday." Bruce said, "She mentioned Jack had only a short time left. He died early this morning."

And then Tim was propelled into the future, and time was restored.

"You knew he was dying?" Tim asked, quietly.

He spoke slow, and softly, and everyone at the table looked at him with wide eyes. Looked at him like he were a caged animal. Like he was a crazy, suicidal man on the edge of a building. Like at any moment, he might snap and explode or jump.

"You knew he was dying," Tim repeated, his statement no longer a question. "And you didn't tell me. You knew he would die _yesterday,_ and you didn't tell me."

Bruce said nothing. His face didn't even change. The illusions face, on the other hand, lit up with mirth.

" _That is the worst thing he's ever done to us."_ it said, happily.

The illusion leaned over Bruce, picking a scallop off of his plate and eating it.

" _But you know what's funny? Bruce with a shrimp scampi hat on."_

The illusion grabbed Bruce's plate and flipped it upside down on Bruce's head.

Tim's eyes widened. His illusion had never interacted with anyone directly like that, and Tim wondered how Bruce would react. But even though noodles were sliding down his hair and suit jacket, Bruce didn't seem to notice, and that… was kind of funny.

" _Think Dick wants a shrimp scampi hat, too?"_

Shrimp was actually the one seafood that Dick _didn't_ like. It was why his plate was void of them. But it was funny to see the illusion flip Dick's plate on his head too. It was even funnier when the illusion flipped Jason's and Damian's plate on their heads.

" _So the old man's dead. Big whoop, how long has he been dead to us, honestly? No, what we need to really focus on, is why Damian's eating that noodle in his nose."_

Tim looked to the youngest, and sure enough, he was eating a noodle that dangled straight from his nose.

As disgusting as that was, the want to laugh at that was nearly overwhelming, which was weird and strange. Here he'd just been told his father was dead, but honestly, he felt no earthquakes of emotion. Only pain at suppressing his laughter.

When had his father ever put him first? Isn't that what parent did? They put their children first, didn't they? From the moment Tim could come to his own conclusions, he'd known that counting on Jack Drake would only leave him disappointed. Jack didn't care or love him. Jack was selfish. He was stubborn. He was prideful, and rude, and he didn't think anything through. He was exactly what Tim strived _not_ to be. His death meant as much as a strangers death did.

Unfortunate, but not worth any more thought than what he'd already given.

No, watching Damian eat noodles out his nose, as childish as it seemed, was so much more entertaining and humorous to think about.

A small chuckle escaped him, and he covered his mouth to try and stifle his smile and small laughs. His eyes welled up from trying so hard to hold back, but it was futile, and a hiccup and finally a chuckle got out.

Everyone was staring at him- his eyes lit with mirth, his hands failing to cover his grin- and it was the last push he needed to let out a full blown (extremely inappropriate) laugh.

He got up from the table quickly, despite Alfred's call of 'master Timothy', Bruce's raised eyebrow, and Dick literally trying to reach out to grab him, and ran down the hall and up the stairs to his room where he slammed his door behind him. He didn't let his hands fall from his mouth until he was safe in his own room and laughed good and hard for all of 30 seconds.

" _I don't think I'll be eating noodles for a while now."_

Tim sobered up suddenly, and everything crashed on him in a slow, building, wave.

He could see the table now: Bruce and Alfred raising an eyebrow at each other. Damian shaking his head and continuing to eat. Jason laughing at his weirdness. And Dick most likely on his way up at that very moment.

Bruce announced his father was dead at the table, which first off, was not cool. But Tim had laughed. He'd laughed a real, full blown laugh. Everyone had to think he'd cracked.

That outburst of Tim's was enough to have him breathless and his stomach muscles hurting. But now that it was over, he felt tired and… sick. Very, very sick.

This realization was a bit of a shock, and he hurried into his bathroom, slamming the door behind him again to vomit into the toilet.

A light knock came to the bathroom door, and Tim knew it was Dick immediately.

"Yeah," Tim called, weakly, "I'll be out in a minute."

Dick had probably gone and sat on the bed at that point, but the moment Tim had ceased vomiting, he'd felt the need to do it again. And again. And again. And then the knock came again, but firmer, and Dick just came in.

"Timmy?" Dick said, "I'm concerned."

"Yeah," Tim sighed, getting up and flushing the toilet, "Me too."

Tim grabbed onto the tub, the wall, the shower, as he made his way to the sink to wash his face and brush his teeth. He knees were shaking and his legs felt nearly nonexistent. He was gasping for air, a fact he tried to conceal from Dick, who was watching. And he could feel sweat rolling down his back.

How had he gotten so sick, so fast?

"Tim," Dick tried, before biting his lip and looking away, "Tim, I'm… I-"

"Don't." Tim interrupted, "Not now."

He didn't want to hear how sorry Dick was. He didn't want to hear anything else about his father right now. He didn't want to think about how he'd always trudged to the hospital with reluctance. Or about how he'd always yelled at his father when he'd asked about the bruises Tim 'mysteriously' got. Or about ignoring his father when he spoke, fearing any response would just cause an argument.

And he definitely didn't want to laugh. He didn't want to cry, either though. He just wanted to be left alone to think.

" _I don't think Dick's smart enough to just leave us alone."_ the illusion sighed, sitting on the edge of the tub and cleaning under his fingernails. .

"What was with the laughing?" Dick asked in a burst, "You don't even laugh like that. That wasn't your laugh…"

" _See? Not that smart."_

Tim ran his cold rag over his face, which felt good, and looked at himself in the mirror. A startled gasp was stifled by his rag, and he looked through the mirror to see Dick wasn't watching him, but was staring at the floor, his arms folded as he thought.

Tim looked back at himself in the mirror before leaning down to splash more cold water in his face. Obviously, he was seeing things. But no, when he looked back at himself in the mirror, his eyes were indeed, green.

Tim's legs buckled, and he would have fallen had Dick not caught him.

"Whoa, whoa, kiddo." he said, picking Tim up and carrying him out the bathroom, "You are obviously sick."

He put Tim in his bed, but Tim pointedly refused to look at him, less his brother see his eyes. Logically, something told him he ought to show his brother, but subconsciously, he refused to let himself appear any weaker than he'd already been made out to be. Laughing at dinner. Green eyes.

Could that be any more of an alarm?

"Let me take a look at you, Timmy." Dick said, laying his hands on Tim's cheek and forehead.

" _Let's look at him. I wanna see his face when he notices."_

Tim refused to turn and look at him. He couldn't let Dick see his eyes. He couldn't let the one who cared about him most see this fault in him. The only logical explanation was that this was some side effect of whatever the Joker had done to him. His eyes hadn't just changed from blue to any old shade of green. His eyes had been _vibrant,_ almost aglow. And Joker was the only one who had eyes like that.

"What is going on with you, Tim?" Dick asked, still trying to make Tim face him. "Just let me… check… your… _pupils_."

Dick had ditched the 'good/gentle brother' approach and had climbed onto the bed to literally try and force Tim to look at him. But it turned into an all out brawl as Tim denied him that.

Tim pushed and hit at his brother tactfully but blindly, refusing to look at him, and Dick tried to catch his hands to stop him. Even crawling on top of Tim, cutting off his ability to kick him, didn't yield fruitful results.

" _This is better than wrestling."_ the illusion laughed.

"Timmy, _stop._ " Dick tried, "Just let me - _ow-_ I just want to - _hey! -_ Timmy, _quit it._ What is the matter with you?"

Tim refused to say, and he refused to give in, when Dick brought his feet in (a sure sign that he was done playing games) he was able to pin Tim's shoulder down with his foot, pin Tim's arm down with his hand, and made Tim turn his head to look at him.

Tim screamed at him, fighting to break the hold, but Dick was stronger.

" _Aww,"_ the illusion pouted, looking at Tim over Dick's shoulder, " _They're blue again. I liked them green."_

Tim relaxed tremendously at that, and Dick did too in retaliation.

" _He hasn't let you go."_ the illusion warned, suddenly.

Tim didn't understand the significance of that until he realized Dick had grabbed his shoulder tightly.

" _You don't have to let him…"_

Dick was pressing on several pressure points, and Tim knew immediately why he was relaxing so quickly, now. Those pressed pressure points would put him out for a few hours.

" _You don't have to let him make you sleep,"_ the illusion repeated, " _You can break his hold. Just break his wrist and you win!"_

No. Maybe sleep was good right now. Maybe he needed some rest. His father had died and he'd laughed about it. In front of everyone. Dick had come to check on him, and he'd fought him about it. He and Dick _never_ fought.

Who's to say the green eyes he'd saw wasn't just another illusion anyway? How could he know it was real? By trusting another illusion's word?

No. Sleep was a good idea right now, and he welcomed the darkness.

* * *

When Tim woke, the illusion was the first thing he saw. It sat beside him, and put a finger to his lips to make sure Tim didn't speak.

" _They're talking about us."_

Tim sat up onto his elbows. He could hear Damian's voice right outside his door.

"Can't we all just admit it?" Damian asked, "Drake has _cracked._ He's absolutely lost his mind."

"Don't say that," Dick whispered, "Tim is just under a lot of stress right now. And to be honest, you and Jason aren't helping."

"Leave me out of it." Jason threw in.

"Now," Dick said, "There's nothing wrong with Tim. He just needs some time to adjust. He's just lost his father, or did you all forget?"

Dick said he was fine. Damian said he was crazy. Which one was it? While Tim hoped it was Dick, he could not deny that _something_ was wrong with him. The laughing. The illusion. He was losing touch with reality it seemed. But maybe he _was_ just stressed.

Calming down and maybe some meditation would help fix all of that then, right?

"I implore you to forget about the laugh, master Dick." Alfred whispered. "Master Timothy is very ill. He cannot be held accountable right now for his behavior."

"I _can't_ forget it _,_ " was Dick's reply, "Did you _hear_ him? At first, I didn't think that was Tim's laugh at all. It sounded weird and strange, but then I thought about it, and I'm not even sure of the last time I'd really even _heard_ him laugh. I don't know what it sounds like!"

Dick was shushed, and the conversation continued on too low for Tim to hear.

" _That is pretty sad,"_ the illusion sighed.

Tim just laid back, hoping sleep would overtake him again.

* * *

It didn't. And well into the night, he found himself trying to think of things to clean and reciting pi. He'd done the spice cabinet a few nights ago. And he'd reorganized the filing cabinet and the weapons wall. His clothes were pressed and neat. His books as organized as possible.

" _I'm bored."_ the illusion sighed, making Tim jump.

Tim hadn't seen it in the far corner.

" _Let's go out and do something."_

Tim groaned at the onset of a headache. He closed his eyes, trying to sleep, but jumped yet again when the bed bounced.

" _Get up!"_ the illusion yelled, jumping on the bed, " _Come on, there's a million things we could be doing! It'll be fun!"_

Tim wanted to shush him, but decided it best to go back to ignoring it. He acknowledged it once, and now, it wouldn't shut up. He mourned silence.

" _At least use the bathroom first."_ the illusion said, jumping onto it's back, " _We both know you'll lay there and pretend you don't have to go until you_ _ **really**_ _have to go. Just get it over with."_

That was really true, actually, so begrudgingly, Tim got out of bed. A bathroom in his room was always a godsend.

" _With the old man dead,"_ the illusion mused, as Tim used the bathroom, " _We won't have any reason to go out during the day, which'll do wonders to our complexion. Robin only works at night, so, hello pale-town!"_

Tim focused on not looking at the illusion as he washed his hands. He was feeling nauseous again, and his hands shook under the warm running water.

He looked at himself in the mirror and jumped, then frowned. His eyes were green again and he looked crazy. Livid. His hair wild, his clothes wrinkled. If there was one thing he hated, it was a mess. And right now, he looked it.

" _I think you look great._ " the illusion said, looking at Tim through the mirror.

Tim shook his head. He wasn't listening. He wasn't looking. This was all in his imagination.

" _You are_ _ **not**_ _creative enough to conjure up someone as awesome as me,"_ the illusion said, striking a pose in the mirror, " _Now, why don't you stop your pretending, acknowledge me, and come out on the town with me. Come on, we'll paint it red!"_

Tim wasn't listening. He _wasn't._

" _It's not like you have anyone else to go with. Who'd even care if they found your room empty?"_

He wasn't listening.

" _You've got no guts. No backbone, as Damian'd say. You don't belong here. You belong out there, with me!"_

Tim seethed, and in a fit of rage, he punched his mirror, shattering the reflection of the illusion and cutting his knuckles. The illusion burst into a fit of laughter, but Tim looked down at his dripping, bloody hand.

He was definitely in shock. This was not like him.

" _Kind of reminds me of slime."_ the illusion laughed, looking up in the broken the mirror, " _Red slime. Imagine_ _ **this**_ _poured on Jason's head."_

Tim laughed suddenly at the blood dripping down the broken mirror. Jason would act brave, but he'd be totally creeped out.

Dizziness hit him hard and he grabbed the edge of the sink for balance. He couldn't stop his laughter now, and he put a hand on his tight stomach. A headache came full force and he let go of the sink, backing up against the wall behind him and sliding down the wall and onto the floor. His ribs hurt, and his head hurt, and he felt like passing out and throwing up at the same time.

" _I love people that laugh at their own jokes."_ his illusion said nonchalantly.

Tim looked up through tears to see the Joker version of himself staring at him through the shattered remains of the mirror. His smile permanently plastered on his face, he turned to Tim slowly.

" _Whatcha laughin' at?"_ he asked, and Tim shook his head.

That boy was imaginary. He was not real, so it was not sensible to acknowledge him. It was not logical to speak or interact or even look at the illusion. So Tim put his head down and into his knees. His laughing was dwindling down, finally, and he was gasping for air.

" _Ignoring me again, eh?"_ the illusion sang lightly, " _That's not gonna work."_

That illusion was just a figment of Tim's imagination. It would go away if he willed it. If he meditated on it. If he concentrated hard enough and kept disregarding it.

Which got harder when the illusion grabbed him by his hair and made him look up.

" _You can't ignore me,"_ it said darkly, " _I'm_ _ **not**_ _an illusion. I'm real. And I can't hurt you."_

And now the illusion was hostile. What a turn of events.

"What do you want?" Tim asked quietly.

" _I want you to wake up."_ the boy said, letting his hair go, " _Wake up from that fantasy of you and everyone getting along. They'll never accept you like you are. Batman'll never see you unless you give him a reason to. And what better reason than madness?"_

"I'm not crazy." Tim said firmly.

" _Yet here you are talking to yourself in an empty bathroom after a laughing fit. Sounds loony to me."_

"I'm _not_ crazy." Tim repeated and the boy just laughed.

" _You're too serious is what you are."_ he said, " _You gotta learn to see the hilarity in tragedy. You gotta learn to see the silver lining in black clouds. It's funny, kid. It's_ _ **all**_ _funny. You'll see."_

The illusion smiled, and winked at him.

And then blackness.

* * *

When Tim came to, he fell immediately onto his back. It'd happened so fast he didn't even feel his legs give out beneath him. He'd come out of countless comas and bouts of unconsciousness, and he recognized that awakening feeling. Yet, he did not remember ever passing out.

The dizziness was familiar, though. And that threat of vomit was familiar.

He focused on his breathing as he rolled slowly onto his stomach. His hands shook on the gritty gravel beneath him and the wind picked his hair up and made him cold. With a start, Tim realized he was not in his bathroom anymore.

Instead, he was on a rooftop. He looked down at himself, finding he was in his pajamas, though he didn't remember changing into them. So at some point, he'd showered, put on pajamas, and then… scaled a building?

Scaled a building… with no shoes on. And no mask, which meant if anyone saw, they'd see Tim Drake scaling a building… not Robin.

Bruce. Would. _Kill_. Him.

Tim began climbing down the wall immediately. Finding Tim Drake downtown with pajamas on and no shoes was weird. Finding Tim Drake downtown with pajamas on, no shoes, and on top of a building was weirder. He had to limit his exposure right now, and get home unseen.

Which shouldn't have been hard. He recognized the area easily and though he had no equipment or gadgets or suit, he was still Robin. And what couldn't Robin do?

As long as no one knew he was missing, and as long as Oracle didn't see a pj-clad teen with no shoes on as suspicious, then he could get home unseen easily.

He'd worry about how he's gotten out there in the first place, later.

Blackness.

* * *

Tim did not know if he'd passed out again at that point or what, but suddenly, he was sitting up from his bathroom floor in darkness. His hands were sore, and his stomach muscles hurt like he'd spent hours laughing. He groaned, putting a hand to his head, which felt like it were splitting open.

He felt sore and dizzy and nauseous. It made him feel like waking up on a rooftop could very well have been a dream. Who's to say he didn't fall and hit his head on his sink and knock himself out? His illusion was nowhere to be found and his head certainly did hurt.

Maybe he'd imagined the whole thing…

He managed to get to his feet slowly, and turn on the light. When his eyes adjusted to the brightness, he gave the bathroom a once over.

Everything was destroyed.

The mirror lay in shambles on the sink and across the floor he'd just been laying on. The shower curtain was torn and the entire room was bloody. His bloody handprints smeared red across the walls and counters, and for some reason, that was kind of amusing.

And then, it wasn't.

Tim swayed, his legs threatening to give out again, and he got down on a clear spot of the floor carefully. He crawled across the floor, bile rising in his throat, and he reached the toilet just in time to vomit.

He leaned against the tub for a while, resting his head on the cool porcelain, before he looked at the wall inside his shower.

 _ **It's Funny**_ had been written in blood sloppily, the red dripping, and already drying brown. He looked down at his blood caked hands in disgust. He didn't remember doing _any_ of that, and yet, there was no other explanation.

* * *

Ta-da! I'm back. Who's being thrown for a little loop here? Who here still trusts Tim's point of view? Hmmm. Interesting.

Cheers!


	8. Up In My Head

Tim had his hands wrapped and bathroom mostly back to order before anyone in the manor woke. His illusion had actually wrapped his hands for him, taking his time as he tenderly applied medicine. And he'd been the one to sweep up the glass, though he made Tim scrubs the blood from the walls.

For now, he stuffed the bag of glass and bloody towels in the pantry, making a mental note to get them later.

" _We make a good team."_ it said, tying the bag of glass up. " _You and me, we could do so many cool things…_ _ **and**_ _get away with it."_

"Why do you change your point of view so often?" Tim asked, keeping his voice low, "Sometimes you say 'you', and sometimes you say 'we'. Sometimes it's 'us', and sometimes-"

" _I'm a poet,"_ it snapped, angrily somehow, and Tim said nothing. " _I say whatever I think sounds nice."_

The illusion had turned dark suddenly, and after what had just happened, Tim did not want to push him. But the mood swings were hard to navigate and anticipate. As long as Tim kept it happy, though, he shouldn't have to worry about blacking out.

* * *

"Where's Jason?" Dick asked, walking through the living room.

Tim shrugged from the couch.

He and the illusion had been watching Man vs Wild pretty much the entire day. Alfred had brought him a giant sandwich for lunch, which he'd given to the illusion, and aside from a heavy hand on his shoulder, Alfred had left him alone.

Jason and Damian had been nowhere to be found, and Bruce was at work for once. If Tim knew he'd get that kind of peace, he'd of had his father killed ages ago.

" _Death is beautiful, my man. Beautiful."_

"It isn't." Tim remembered quietly, shaking his head, "It's unfortunate."

"Where?" Dick asked, approaching, and Tim just shook his head.

"I said he left about an hour ago. Had a bag with him."

"And you just let him go?" Dick asked, walking over to look out the window, though he wasn't sure what he'd be looking for.

"I wasn't going to stop him," Tim said, laughing incredulously, "I might actually manage to sleep tonight with him gone. Now I've just got to get rid of the demon."

Dick shook his head and sighed, "Jason's always running off. He'll be back."

"He always is..." Tim said, a hint of bitterness in his voice.

"But for the time being, it's just you and me, Timmy, so we better get out on the streets early. Bruce is working late today."

" _Hey, let's kill the acrobat tonight. No one'll know!"_

"Coming." Tim said, turning off the TV.

He glared at the illusion as he walked by, and it just shrugged at him, smiling.

" _Could be fun."_

* * *

"Uh... no." Nightwing said, looking to his younger brother skeptically, "Never heard of him."

"Says here, that he's some kind of schizophrenic with mental powers." Robin said, reading from the holographic screen projecting from his glove.

"My favorite combination..." Nightwing muttered.

"Last known location was the prison in Star City, but the blackout yesterday got him and a few others out and back on the streets."

"Chaos?"

"Not quite, but close."

"That would explain why Wally's been blowing up my phone."

"Why don't you answer?"

"It's usually something stupid with Wally. A quick run to Santa Barbara for a drink. A run to China for an egg roll. Italy for spaghetti. He eats entirely too much. Even for me."

"But you love doing all that stuff with him. He's one of your best friends."

Patrol with just Nightwing was like summer vacation from school. Though Alfred still watched on with a stern eye, he had looser reins than Batman. The night was shaping out to be a quiet one anyway, and that was always welcome.

But no matter how much fun the two had and no matter how quiet the night seemed to be, Robin knew he was being watched closely. Nightwing kept him close, and Oracle kept tabs, and Alfred kept asking if he was alright or ready to turn in. Tim knew what it was all about, and he found it slightly annoying.

Yes, his father had died. No, his world hadn't fallen apart. He was just fine moving on with his life, and he was perfectly capable of putting the event from his mind and staying focused on the task at hand. He was a professional, after all. He was Robin. And every good Robin was able to focus on the job and leave all civilian problems in the cave.

Robin was sure Damian had much to learn about being a hero. He wasn't ready for the Robin suit, the title, or the name.

Nightwing shrugged, "Just didn't feel like it yesterday."

"Well he probably really needed your help." Robin said, closing the screen, "He's gotten a lot of guys back behind bars, but there's still some mean ones running around."

"There always is."

"Shall we, then?"

"Better not." Nightwing said with a shake of his head, "I'll head out there on my own to help out, but you better wait here in case Batman needs you. He might have something else in mind for you."

"But he's leaving off world soon. He'll probably want me with you."

Only an hour ago did the two get the heads up that soon, Batman would be headed off world with some other league members, including Superman, Wonder Woman, Flash, Martian Manhunter, Hawkgirl, and Green Lantern. The big seven. Some intergalactic case that required representatives of earth.

Superman was typically known as the face of earth's heroes, and was trusted by nearly everyone peaceful. Wonder Woman represented women as strong, dominant roles, which many races were not used to. Hawkgirl was fierce, and any person could see she was not only strong, but a force to be reckoned with. Flash was a people person that often got along with any and every race. Green Lantern was open minded and sensible, giving him good judgement on important decisions. Martian Manhunter was telepathic, and his perception of people made him reliable and a good judge of character.

But it was Batman that called all the shots. What Batman said, went. And if Batman said no, then all the other leaguers would back him up and support his decision.

He didn't expect to be gone long, but Nightwing was in charge until his return. So far, Jason was missing. But Nightwing wasn't in charge yet, so technically, that was Batman's problem.

"Valid point, but still not buying it." Nightwing said, "You and him'll have to make up sometime."

" _Hypocrite."_

"Hypocrite." Tim muttered, groaning when his brother ruffled his hair.

Junior sat on the edge of the building, kicking his legs and throwing insults at Nightwing where he felt appropriate. This topic in particular seemed to hit Junior in a sensitive spot.

It was known that Batman and Nightwing butt heads every now and then. But Tim was different. He always did his best to follow orders to a t and didn't question anything he could figure out on his own, which tended to be everything, so silence was common and backtalk a rarity when it came to giving him orders.

Nightwing encouraged _both_ men to get over it and make up, though it was Tim he pressed. Tim was easier to talk to.

* * *

" _Stop that."_

"Stop what?" Tim asked, unfastening his tunic.

A bruise under his arm made him move slowly changing out of his Robin suit. The night had picked up towards the end, but it was over now, and Dick was on the treadmill cooling down from their activities. He could never go cold turkey after an adventurous night and always had to wind down on the treadmill. Alfred had gone to fix them both a snack before bed, and Tim was taking his time changing.

" _Stop calling me an illusion."_ the illusion said, pulling the tunic over Tim's head carefully, " _Call me Junior."_

Tim raised an eyebrow, "Junior? Well, who's senior?"

" _Who do you think?"_

Tim didn't like thinking about the Joker. And he didn't like connecting the Joker to his illusion-

" _Junior. My name is Junior."_

He didn't like connecting the Joker to _Junior_ , despite the fact that Junior looked like a mini version of Joker, anyway. He could almost ignore the pasty pale skin and green hair and bloody looking smile if he tried really hard. The name Junior just payed homage to the Joker and reminded Tim that all was not exactly as it should be.

Something… something was wrong with him. He shouldn't be seeing illusions. He shouldn't be talking to himself. He shouldn't be hurting himself. He shouldn't-

" _Old dudes back."_

"His name is Alfred."

" _His name is whatever I call him."_

All day, his illusion… Junior, had had a short temper with him. He snapped at the smallest things, like the television volume and the amount of light the open curtains let in. It put Tim on edge. He did not know how to navigate such flippant emotions, and Junior had already proven that he could sometimes make Tim do things he didn't want to. His wrapped hands were testimony to that.

* * *

It was all Dick's idea.

Of _course_ it was. Who else would suggest ice skating in the middle of the night with such enthusiasm? Definitely not Jason. Truth be told, no one _really_ wanted to go.

But Bruce was leaving soon, and Tim needed a change of scenery, and Damian needed a different form of exercise, and Jason hadn't been in years, and Alfred needed a night off, and Dick _really_ wanted to go… It sounded like a spiel given by a five year old, but, Dick was actually pretty convincing when he pouted, despite how annoying it was.

Shame Tim decided he wasn't going.

"Come on, Timmy…" Dick said, standing in Tim's doorway all wrapped up in a scarf, coat, and gloves, "Even _Jason's_ coming. Ask me how I did _that_."

"All the more reason for me to stay," Tim told him.

Tim was reading his novel quite comfortably on his bed. He hadn't seen Junior in hours and for that wonderful amount of time, Tim had forgotten everything that was going on. He'd forgotten about Bruce and his father and Joker and everything. All that had mattered, was getting to the next chapter.

It was an illusion to old times, and Tim did not want to shatter that dream. He wanted to keep living in it.

"Tim, we're not leaving you here alone," Dick said, pulling his scarf down so he could speak better, "You've got to come."

"I'm technically an adult," Tim told him, calmly, going back to his book, "And I can take care of myself. You guys go without me. Have fun. Take pictures."

"Timothy Drake," Dick admonished lightly.

"Richard Grayson," Tim returned.

The decision was eventually made definitely when Dick threw Tim over his shoulder and carried him down to the foyer. Tim resisted the first few steps down the stairs, but by time Dick wrapped the scarf around Tim's neck, tying it sloppily, but secure and warm like he always did, Tim was resigned to actually getting out the house for once.

A three-rowed, black SUV was Bruce's choice when they all travelled together in civilian attire, and that evening was no different. Dick took the seat behind Bruce, who was in the passenger seat, and Tim sat in the third row behind him, like usual. Beside Tim, Jason was blaring music so loud it was heard outside of his headphones.

"This is going to be so much fun." Dick said, clicking his seatbelt as Alfred drove down the driveway, "I haven't skated since last year."

Damian grumbled something, pulling at his scarf, and Tim noticed the familiar loop Dick always did when he tied scarves. Tim pulled at the scarf around his own neck with that same familiar loop and looked out his window.

He was jealous, all of a sudden, and he knew that was petty, so he focused on the trees they passed.

The skating rink was only a half hour away, but true to Wayne fashion, that half hour seemed like five.

Dick was sleep five minutes into the ride.

Damian reclined his chair back too far and hit Jason's legs.

Jason kicked Damian's chair rhythmically for the rest of the ride to Damian's annoyance.

Alfred threatened to turn the car around when the two started arguing.

Bruce told a story about a mountaineer that lost his legs in a bear attack, but still survived the inclimate condition and was rescued. Then he explained all the ways the mountaineer was an idiot, and all the ways Bruce would have done it better.

And then the rink came into view and it was clearly a relief to everyone but Tim. Tim had thoroughly enjoyed the ride. Listening to such normal bantar, hearing Dick's soft snoring, the lull of the car… it made the drive home something to be anticipated.

Besides, with everyone in the car, the dread of Junior's inevitable return did not seem so frightening. What could hurt him when he was in a car full of heroes? Even his brain could not conjure up something that could take on the bat-family.

Maybe Dick was right, and he _did_ really need a change of scenery.

"Get up, Dick." Bruce said, opening his door once Alfred had parked.

"Dang it," Dick sighed, opening his own door, "The rides half the fun."

No one but Dick was in any rush to get their skates. It took twenty minutes alone for Alfred and Dick to convince Bruce that watching everyone else skate was not 'just as fun as skating'. But like always, Dick got his way, and everyone got their skates and followed him slowly across uneven ground and towards the rink.

The entire rink was empty, but no one took note. Bruce could easily have called ahead and had the rink cleared, or the owners could have cleared it hoping to make the family more comfortable. Neither option was unusual.

"Getting on is the hardest part for me," Dick said, gripping the side of the rink as he gingerly stepped onto the ice.

Alfred glid onto the ice like a pro with Bruce not far behind him. Jason grabbed Dick's shoulder for balance until he'd firmly established himself on the ice as well.

Tim waited patiently behind Damian who was taking his time stepping onto the ice. He'd never ice skated before.

Honestly, Tim believed Damian was the only reason Bruce agreed to the trip. The man had taught each and every Wayne boy to skate, and now it was Damian's turn. It was a necessary skill not so much because skating was a bonding or even fun activity, but because a hero never knew what environment he'd find himself in, and learning to skate could be life saving.

In the end, that was always what drove Bruce's decisions.

Damian carefully stepped onto the ice and Tim followed suit. A miniscule move and a yelp later, Damian found himself on his butt. In his fall, he'd pulled Tim down and Tim instantly remembered how cold his butt used to get from falling on it so often.

Bruce approached them slowly, reaching a hand down to help them both to their feet.

Once upon a time ago, Tim would have thought nothing of the gesture. He'd of taken Bruce's gloved hand without a thought and went to try and reteach himself to skate again. The gesture would have been appreciated, but thought about no more.

Now? Now, not so much. Tim's hands actually shook as he took the hand of the man that had extended it in a millions ways in Tim's life. Bruce pulled him up firmly before patting his shoulder with a smile and giving him a shove towards the middle of the ice.

No gripping the sides of the rink for him.

Alfred winked at Tim as he sped by and Tim could almost hear the man say, "Just go with it, master Timothy. Just go with it."

Why should Tim make waves? He'd rather surf them, thank you. If Bruce was in a good mood, Tim would not spoil it.

"Come on, Tim." Dick said, approaching and spinning a tight circle around him, "Get some speed, would you? You're not even moving."

"He can't," Jason said, skating by backwards, "Kid can't skate."

"I can skate." Tim defended, pushing off and taking what he hoped looked like confident strides.

Honestly, he wasn't the best skater. But he could skate without falling, and that was enough to prove Jason wrong, even if Jason's tone _had_ held a joking air to it.

Tim smiled a bit as he looked around himself. Everyone skated in a way that seemed to match them.

Alfred skated much like he walked: tall, upright, quickly, and gracefully. There were times when Alfred walked like he was on ice, gliding across the manors' hallways and floating up and down the stairs like he weighed nothing or could fly. The man was the epitome of class and sophistication.

Dick's strides rivalled Olympian athletes. He was sharp and elegant, even when he was teasing whoever came close enough to hear him. He made tight spins, randomly, every twist and turn precise and exact, reminding anyone who saw that he was raised to do a dance most could not handle. He was born to fly, and being on the ice did not hamper that calling.

Jason was surprisingly balanced. His strides did not falter, he did not wobble, and even when he rode over cracks that would trip most people, he kept his balance. For Tim, it was easy to think of Jason as someone mean and hard and uncaring. They lived together. They _knew_ each other well, despite all the trouble they put each other through. But at the end of the day, Jason was a hero. He risked his life every day for the sake of others. He was _not_ a bad guy. He was good. And though he could be rough, he still maintained what he stood for. No matter what he went through, he somehow remained balanced.

Bruce was coaching Damian through some drills to get him moving more, and falling less. As always, the boy was eager to prove he knew what he was doing. He was not graceful yet, would never be as graceful as Dick or as balanced as Jason, but, he was fast. A fast learner, a fast skater. For someone who did not know how to skate, he zipped around the outer rink like someone who did. He had the confidence, if nothing else.

Bruce was right on his tail, his strides strong and meaningful and powerful. No stride was useless or unnecessary, and he moved with a poise that came with years of experience. He spun around Jason, skating backwards as he kept up with Damian, but Tim saw his eyes wander. Wander to each and every person on the ice with protective intensity. He was always very aware of himself and those he cared about.

Though Tim was not as poised as Alfred, or graceful as Dick, or balanced as Jason, or fast as Damian, or strong as Bruce, he did not mind being in the midst of them. He did not feel out of place or jealous or left behind. He did not feel unwelcome or awkward or misput. They had their strengths, and he had his.

His talent happened to be his ability to not draw attention to himself. Whenever someone flew by him, he matched their speed immediately and stayed behind them and on their tail until they eventually noticed him.

He'd earned himself a scream for Dick, a trip from Jason, and a raised eyebrow from Alfred.

"You're hilarious, Tim." Dick said grabbing Tim's arms and skating in front of him backwards, "Hilarious."

Tim shrugged, smiling at his skates. He'd just snuck up on Dick for the second time, though Dick had claimed Tim couldn't do it twice.

"Want me to lift you up?" Dick joked, and Tim laughed, trying to break free from Dick's grip.

"And let Jason see _that_ freak show?" he asked, "Never."

"Come on, we can do an awesome spin," Dick added, "You can flip off my shoulders."

"Pass and pass."

Dick spun Tim in a circle anyway, before laughing and skating off to mess with Alfred.

Tim smiled after him. He felt redeemed suddenly. The last time Dick had grabbed him, he'd smashed Dick in the face with a book. Somehow, having Dick grab him and leave laughing made him feel like he'd made it up to him. Erased that horrible memory. Locked it away with the other nightmares.

This was a new day.

Boyishly confident in his new skill, Damian called for a race, which Alfred judged. When Bruce won and Damian lost, he called a rematch. And another one. And another one. And another one.

"Time out," Bruce called, after winning the next race, "I need a drink."

"Me, too." Dick called, and suddenly, everyone was agreeing.

"Tim," Bruce said, to Tim's surprise, "Help me get us some drinks."

How long ago would that sentence not have stricken Tim so hard? How long ago was being addressed by Bruce not so strange and not so alarming?

Tim nodded following the man off the ice, and towards the lit inn that emitted warmth from inside and smelled of french fries and burning logs.

Bruce said nothing until they entered the seemingly empty inn. He motioned Tim to follow him, and then took a seat on the bench they'd all sat on to put on their skates.

Bruce looked at Tim hard as he took his seat. Tim fidgeted under his gaze. This was weird now. It was strange. It was awkward. Dick would say something now. Dick would have been said something. Dick wouldn't have stopped talking from the ice. Why was Tim so quiet? So awkward? What would Dick say right now?

"This is all my fault," Bruce sighed, after a moment, and Tim held his breath.

Why was he so fidgety? So on edge? This was Bruce. It was only Bruce.

"I shouldn't have let us get to this point," Bruce said, staring at him, "You're fidgeting, Tim. You can't sit still."

"I'm just cold," Tim denied, but Bruce shook his head.

"We both know I know you better than that."

Sometimes it was hard to remember. Tim hadn't had a decent conversation with Bruce in what felt like months. How much about him _did_ Bruce know? How much did _he_ know about _Bruce_? The lines of their relationship were blurred and the rules and guidelines that kept their interactions organized and healthy and perfect, like they both liked, had somehow fallen apart and Tim was not sure he could speak to Bruce without them. What kept him from giving away too much emotion? What told him he was revealing too much? Where did the lines end and blur and cross?

"I don't know what to say, Bruce?" Tim admitted, "I'm sorry I'm like this. I'm sorry I couldn't win back your trust. I'm sor-"

"This _isn't_ your fault, Tim." Bruce said, his voice somehow both firm and confused, " _I'm_ the adult, but I've been treating you like it's _your_ place to fix things and make them right. But it isn't. I shouldn't have let you run off that roof. Joker should have never got you. Dick should never have been put in that position. This is _my_ fault, Tim. Not yours. I'm sorry, and, I love you."

Bruce put his hand on Tim's shoulder, and in the moment, Tim knew this was the exact moment he'd dreamed of and had been waiting for. The moment he and Bruce put it all behind them. The moment they agreed to move forward. The moment all that had happened, didn't matter.

This was a moment Tim could move on from. This was a moment Tim could rebuild from. This was a moment he could start over from. Nothing before that moment mattered. He could only get better from here.

Tim was fighting back tears as he looked down at his skates. As nice as this was, it was a lot of emotion involved, and he was not very good at too much emotion. It embarrassed him, and after what Bruce had said, he didn't know what to say.

"Bruce," he started, looking up, but froze.

Bruce was gone.

Tim's senses keened, his muscles flexed, and suddenly, he felt hyper aware of himself. Of everything. Like coming out of a dream.

A strange dream.

He did not know when things changed, but the inn was dark, the only light coming from the vending machines that were still plugged in and humming and from the few lights from outside.

Nothing seemed as it did a moment ago. It no longer smelled of french fries and smoke. Now it smelled of Lysol and bleach. The warmth that had greeted him was gone, instead, the inn was cold. The soft lights that had previously lit the inn and gave it a warm and cozy feeling were off, leaving a cold and unnaturally dark space that felt large and foreboding.

Tim looked down at himself. He didn't wear the hideous skates he'd rented. Instead, he wore sneakers. He had no gloves anymore and the familiar tie in his scarf was gone, replaced with a neat and exact knot he knew he'd done himself.

His breathing quickened, and his instincts told him to get out of the dark and empty inn. Bruce was not there, clearly, and the chances of Junior showing up was rising every second.

Tim noticed the picked lock as he left the inn, but that was pushed from his mind when he saw the empty rink. A few lights were on that slightly illuminated the area, but Tim's eyes were adjusted enough for him to know what he saw was real. Alfred was gone. Dick and Jason and Damian were gone. And from the looks of it, it almost seemed as if they were never there.

Which Tim knew couldn't be true.

But knowing Dick, maybe this was a prank. Jason would definitely try something like this, so Tim tried to calm his racing heart. He pushed the feeling that something was off and incredibly wrong away. He shoved his shaking hands in his pockets and tried to even his breathing. He tried to catch his breath. A panic attack was right around the corner and Tim was doing everything he could to detour around it. He just had to find his family. They would calm his irrational fears.

That didn't happen though, as Tim approached the rink. The once glistening, white, and slightly foggy ice was covered in oozing, dripping, red liquid that Tim could only assume was blood. The layer of blood on the ice created a thick, red mist from being on the cold ice, and it gave the poorly lit rink a haunted, bloody, look. Smears and handprints littered the once pure floe, and six pairs of tattered and torn skates, including the ones Tim had had on, lay skewed about. Blades were broken and scattered around, and scarves and a few coats, all of which looked painfully familiar to Tim, lay in puddles and smears of blood.

And there was the panic attack.

Tim put a hand to his chest, pushing on it, hoping to relieve the heart attack he felt took hold of him. His heart raced so fast he could feel the beat in his toes, beating and thumping so rapidly that it felt like one, continuous, beat. His lungs felt like they were collapsing, and his head pumped, and he felt dizzy and sick and weak all at once, and it was all he could do to keep himself from passing out and being sick all at once.

Every fiber in his body told him to run. To leave. To flee before whatever happened, happened again, but Tim could not leave before he confirmed what he'd already known to be true.

Hesitantly, he stepped on the ice in his sneakers and made his way to the scarf he'd seen on Dick just minutes ago. The once blue scarf was soiled in blood and torn and shredded so that it was almost unrecognizable.

Tim gripped the scarf in his hands, unable to force himself to drop it, and hurried off the ice. He ran straight to the parking lot, where the car _should_ have been, but was not, which raised a flood of questions. Where was the car? Who took it? And… if the blood on the ice belonged to who he thought it did, where were the bodies? Did someone hide them? Why would they leave him? Did _he_ do this?

" _Just like our mystery novel, huh?"_

Tim was sure his heart stopped beating as he turned behind him. Junior leaned against a tree far in the distance, no coat or winter wear on, but his hands tucked deep in his pockets. And though he was so far away, Tim heard him loud and clearly.

Of course Junior was here. He was _always_ present when something went wrong like this.

"What've you done?" Tim demanded, approaching Junior, "Where did you put them?"

Junior laughed, " _Mystery novels don't just_ _ **tell**_ _you the answer. You have to_ _ **solve**_ _them."_

"This isn't a _game_." Tim spat, using Dick's scarf to wrap around Junior's neck and choke him just enough to make his threat seem legit, " _Tell_ me."

Junior only smiled, and before Tim knew what had happened, he'd been thrown onto his back with a painful thud.

" _Let's not pretend we're on the same level here, Tim._ _ **I'm**_ _not the guy you want to put to the test. We both know I can beat you."_

"I don't want to play your game," Tim said, getting to his feet, "I just want to know where they are. If they're okay."

" _If they're safe, if they're together, if they're scared, blah blah blah. Let's just say they're a little tied up right now with no way to call for help. Maybe they're pipe dream is a bit… submerged."_

"What does _that_ mean?"

" _It means you better solve this case quick, or your surrogate family will be under a foot of water."_

That didn't help at all. Tim would rather believe everyone had left him than go on a rescue mission. Besides, how had _Junior_ managed to kidnap a band of heroes? Who could kidnap Batman alone, let alone Batman beside Nightwing and Red Hood?

"I need more than that," Tim said, "I need a location, a clue, a hint, _something_."

Junior only shrugged, looking around as if the night was beautiful and the stars were out and worth admiring.

Tim glared at him before looking down at Dick's scarf in his hands. It was wet with blood but… it was wet with something else, too. Tim walked down the parking lot a little further and towards a brighter street light to inspect it.

The scarf _was_ soaked in blood, but it was soaked in water, too. Salty water from its smell, which meant it was not water from the rink, in case the ice had melted some. Where would salty water come from?

"A lake?" Tim asked, looking to Junior who waltzed towards Tim as if he had all the time in the world, "A river nearby? The harbor?"

" _Jack be faster, Jack be cool…"_

Junior recited, and Tim realized the illusion would not be much help in this.

If Tim was going to try and hide a group of guys in some body of salt water, he would probably drop them in the harbor. Lakes were too stagnant. Minimum natural movement in the water would draw attention should someone start splashing. A river moved and picked things up and took them away, but with five healthy guys to deal with and fast moving water, the struggle would be dangerous. It would be too easy to fall in himself or for them to break free from his grip and get away in the chaos. That left the harbor. But where in the harbor were they? What was close by? None, as far as Tim knew.

But… the car was gone. Junior must of dragged them to the car and drove them somewhere. But how could Tim know where?

" _Jack jump over the paddling pool._ "

That nursery rhyme was really starting to grate Tim's nerve. Ever since his father had died, Junior had sung and recited it. He was trying to find his _family_ , here. This was no time for…

"Jack be quicker, Jack be fast…" he spoke suddenly, remembering the rest of the rhyme, "Jack jump over the ship's tall mast."

" _Jack bounce higher, Jack bounce far,_ " Junior continued, " _Jack jump over the planet and stars."_

"A ships tall mast," Tim said firmly, beginning a jog out the parking lot and onto the empty road.

Ships took shelter in harbors, and on this side of the city, there was only one spot where the harbor was deep enough to hold the larger cargo ships and sail boats. _That_ had to be where he was going. The spot was a few miles away, but what was a few miles for Robin to run? He knew Junior was trailing behind him with an easy pace, like this was just a morning jog, but with every step, Tim found himself gaining speed. Running always helped him think, but this was not a topic or situation he found himself thinking lightly about. This was an emergency, and he sprinted the rest of the way, reaching the harbor in record time.

The pier was deserted unnaturally, and no ships were anywhere near the harbor. Tim did not want to know what Junior had done to pull that off. Cargo ships were always present here, and the captains of those ships were often as rugged as the seas they sailed. They did not deal with coercion well, and they usually did all they could to fulfill a shipment. It was the only way they got paid.

Junior sat at the end of the pier, his shoes and socks beside him, kicking his bare feet over the black and choppy waves beneath him. In the dark, he looked like a phantom, hanging over the empty space of a nightmare.

Tim's heart sped up, but he steeled his nerves and marched up to the illusion. He believed he had every right to demand where his family was now.

In the end, though, he didn't have to. Attached to the edge of the pier, five rusted chains lead deep down under the black and foreboding water and Tim wasted no time diving in.

The water was frigid. It bit and pinched all over and he had to resurface immediately after losing his breath from the shock. But he dove back down quickly and used one of the chains to pull himself down and along it, praying he wasn't as late as reality insisted he probably was.

The water was too dark to see through, and the poor lighting above did not reach down as far as he needed it to. Tim was completely blind by time he reached the end of the chain where he felt… nothing. A string tied the end of the chain to a sizable rock, which kept each chain tethered down and in place.

The chain was empty, as far as Tim could feel. Still, he felt and inspected and scrutinized every chain until he felt lightheaded and was absolutely sure no one was down beneath the pier.

He resurfaced with a gasp and shakily climbed a leg of the pier and back onto its top, where Junior was counting the few stars he could see.

"Where are they?" Tim demanded, though his voice quivered as the strong winter winds blew and shook him, "There's nothing on these chains."

" _Where should they be?"_ Junior asked, looking up at Tim.

That answer was cryptic and would earn him no real help. He needed to be specific if he was going to get anything out of Junior. Which was frightening. The closest people he knew had their lives hanging in the balance of a madman… who was actually an illusion.

The forgotten fact that Junior wasn't real hit Tim hard. Junior wasn't real, so who had done all of this? Was it him?

"The car," Tim said, suddenly frantic, "Where's the car?"

" _What car?"_

"The SUV," Tim exclaimed, "Where's the SUV? It's not in the parking lot. And it's not here. Where is it?"

" _Where it should be. At home._ "

Home? How… could it be home? Did Junior take it there? Did _he_?

Home was a two and half hour, give or take a half hour or so, walk home, and Tim began it immediately. What did he have to lose? Junior was insane, but he typically told the truth. The hard part was deciphering between what was literal and what was exaggerated. If the car was home, then chances were, so was Bruce and everyone else.

* * *

Even when the taxi drivers pulled over and called out asking if he wanted a ride, Tim had walked on. He'd had too much to think about and too much to worry about and too many things to try to figure out. Walking usually cleared his head. He gripped Dick's bloody scarf as he thought and walked.

"They're a little tied up," Tim said, muttering to himself as he spoke of the only clues Junior had given him, "No way to call for help. Something about a pipe dream. Something about being submerged. Tied up is… busy. They're busy. They can't call for help. Call, contact, signal, scream, hail. A pipedream. What's a pipedream? An illusion. A muse. A hypothesis. Not real. What is submerged? Water. A liquid, damp, melt, universal solvent."

Now that Tim suspected something was amiss, there were so many things those clues could mean. He'd taken them as literal. He'd interpreted them as plain and simple as he could, because that was how he solved problems. Concrete ideals were his specialty. This idea of abstract clues was not something he was familiar with. It was how Joker thought, and Batman always took the lead on Joker. Robin only rode shotgun and took instructions.

When Tim finally reached the steps of the manor, he felt half frozen, half dead. His dip in the harbor was brutal, but the walk home was torture. Why didn't he take a taxi again?

Luckily, the door was left open, and the warmth from inside brought feeling back to Tim's face and fingers slowly. But the scene inside was not at all what he'd expected it to be.

It almost seemed like chaos reigned. The lights in the kitchen and dining room were flickering, threatening to give out completely at any moment. The floors were soaked with water that spewed out from several apparently burst pipes in the ceiling. Alfred was frantically trying to save the hardwood floors while simultaneously instructing Damian where to find the fuse box and which fuse to reset. Bruce was struggling to maintain a signal on the call to a repair man. Jason was on Dick's shoulders, duct taping a pipe that shot water from it like a hose, soaking both boys to the bone, much like Tim.

Dick noticed Tim standing in the foyer first, and his face showed that while he'd been occupied with containing the pipes, Tim's absence hadn't slipped his mind.

"Where have you _been_ , Timmy?" Dick asked, setting Jason down and rushing to his side, "We've been calling you and looking everywhere. You're _soaked._ Have you been in the kitchen? It's submerged in a foot of water."

"What happened?" Tim asked, forcing his voice to sound as cool and as collected as he could.

But truthfully, he was a mixture of relieved, confused, and angry. Here was Dick, right in front of him. Fine and healthy and definitely _not_ dead or injured. Everyone was here and accounted for with no signs of danger anywhere (except the broken pipes and electricity thing, that was actually pretty dangerous).

Tim had gone on a rescue mission with no one to rescue, and in hindsight, he should have known. He'd taken his clues and information from the same illusion that knocked him out and left him on a rooftop downtown. What about that screamed trustworthy? The bloody ice was a good touch. Very convincing. Dick's bloody scarf was mysteriously nowhere to be found, though he'd been holding it a second ago. And Tim would bet money that the car was in the garage like it'd never been touched.

The whole experience, from start to end, had been conjured up in his head.

"No idea," Dick said, cooly, "One minute I was sitting on the couch watching TV, the next minute the ceiling came in and the pipes started bursting. We don't even know what's up with the electricity, yet."

Tim nodded. Had he been here, he could have been a big help. Besides Bruce and Alfred, he knew this house the best. He'd studied it's schematics and blueprints from the moment he'd come to live in the house. He was sure he could get to the bottom of the situation.

But did he want to? He was almost 100% sure Junior had something to do with it. The manor was in almost as good of shape at the cave, and Alfred made sure it was kept up perfectly. Burst pipes and electrical problems didn't happen here.

"See if you can lend Bruce a hand," Dick said, walking back over to help Jason, "For some reason, our phones are down all of a sudden. I think it's the signal, but Bruce doesn't. You're good at that stuff, I bet you can help."

Tim nodded. He'd do what he could.

Though he knew the night he'd had wasn't real, feelings of resolution and being on common ground still lingered in his mind. The problems he and Bruce had been having seemed insignificant and small and put behind him, so he approached Bruce confidently, hoping his renewed spirit would rub off on the man.

Tim found Bruce in the kitchen. He had a laptop out on the counter, and from the looks of it, he was running a diagnosis of Gotham's network signals and cell phone towers, testing its strength and durability. If Dick said Bruce disagreed with the signal bring a problem, then this proved he was out of ideas of what could be wrong.

Tim loved solving problems like these, and he was good at it. He was sure solving it would be just another step in proving himself to Bruce and getting back on good terms with the man.

"Bruce," Tim tried, but the man held up his hand.

"I'm a bit tied up at the moment," was his response before asking if the man on the line could hear him.

"I can probably figure out how to boost the signal…"

The look Tim got in response was enough to stop him from insisting any more.

Tim's plan to help was shot down so quick he knew nothing else to do but to simply leave the man alone. Which was fine. Fine. It was all fine. He was tired anyway.

He knew he should offer to help Damian or Alfred, but, he was exhausted, suddenly, his night finally catching up with him. He'd been gone for hours, who would miss him if he went to bed now?

"Electrical problems," Alfred sighed, as Tim passed him, "Plumbing issues, the pipes are a wreck, and, the phones are on the fritz, so we have no way to call for any help. This is ridiculous."

Climbing up the stairs, he could only beat himself up. Nothing had been as Tim had expected. There was no pipe dream, just broken pipes. No one was tied up, just busy from the situations. No one was drowning, no one was calling for medical or rescuing help.

He'd misunderstood everything and drove himself half crazy on a goose chase he'd invented for his own self. He felt stupid and defeated and fooled and suddenly, exhausted. He could sleep well into the morning with the way he was feeling, and honestly, he didn't think it was such a bad idea. What did he need to do in the morning that required him to get up early? Not visit his dad.

"Tim, hang on." Dick called, running up the stairs to meet him.

He brushed his wet hair back and looked over the railing at the chaos happening in the foyer and kitchen and living room.

"You've been gone for hours." Dick said, turning to him, "You didn't even tell anyone you were leaving. Where'd you go?"

Tim scoffed at him. Dick was not his caretaker. He didn't have to answer to him or ask his permission to leave the house. He was tired, and he turned to go to bed.

"Wait, Tim." Dick said, grabbing his arm, "I'm not trying to be overprotective, I'm just asking."

"I went skating." Tim admitted, "Some friends invited me."

Dick perked up, and Tim knew the man imagined him skating with some other kids his age, all of them laughing and having a good time and not focusing on dead parents or clowns that kidnapped teens.

He most likely didn't imagine Tim skating with a group of people who weren't really there. He probably didn't imagine Tim fantasising a horror scene and solving a mystery he'd created himself.

"Good," Dick said, smiling brightly, "That's good. Who gave you a ride home?"

Tim turned on his heels. He wasn't into twenty questions. He'd had _enough_ of asking and answering questions.

"Tim, what's the matter?" Dick asked, pushing Tim's wet hair back and out of his face, "Didn't you have fun?"

Yeah, he'd had fun. Right up until he believed he'd murdered his family.

Everything he'd just gone through- the car ride, falling on ice with Damian, racing, his talk with Bruce- none of it had been true. He'd made it all up in his head. Nothing had changed, and _that_ was the brunt of the pain he felt at that moment. After feeling and _believing_ things had improved… it was devastating to find out he hadn't moved past square one. All of the hurt and pain that he'd _thought_ he'd put behind him and moved past, was still very much there and present.

"Tim…?" Dick asked, watching Tim's face shift from his thoughts.

He wanted to cry. Desperately did he just want to fall apart. To let out pent up frustration and fear and anger that he'd had building up for months. Not only had he tricked himself, but he'd conjured up such a good experience. He'd made good with Bruce. He'd gotten along with Jason and Damian. He and Dick had been like they used to. Alfred had even gotten a night off. Everything Tim wanted was handed to him on a silver platter, only to be ripped away in an instant. Snatched from his hands, like it didn't matter.

How could he be so cruel… to _himself_?

"I'm tired, Dick." Tim exclaimed in a burst before rushing to his room and locking himself inside.

He stood by his door, hand on the lock in case Dick was feeling persistent and insisted Tim talk to him. But Dick did not come and Tim slumped to his bed appreciatively. He could count on one hand the number of times Dick decided to just give him space.

Though the night hadn't technically existed for anyone but him, Tim still felt the lingering euphoria of getting out the house and actually having fun. If he didn't think about Junior, who now watched him from the doorway of the dark bathroom, or if he could forget about the blood and harbor and general creepiness he'd just gone through, he could still pretend he and everyone had had a good time together for once. He could pretend he'd been apart of an experience, and not just a spectator looking in from the outside.

Maybe that was enough to give him good thoughts and dreams for once.

* * *

There was a long one to make up for the weeks I lost. Comment and read on!

Cheers!


	9. Under the Chandeliers

**Update time! Read on, readers. Read on.**

* * *

Galas were nothing but an excuse for rich people to show other rich people just how rich they were. Bruce hated them. Dick hated them. Jason hated them. Damian hated them. And Tim hated them. But when you had to uphold a certain image, and said certain image provided cover for possibly illegal, though useful, vigilantism, galas became something to be endured, and not optional.

Everyone complained and groaned and slouched in the back of the limo Alfred drove. Dressed in monkey suits and ties, they all frowned and glared at each other to prepare themselves for all the fake smiling and pretend interested faces they'd need to don in order to appear to be normal to the highest of elite in Gotham.

Tim stared out the window, taking a deep breath when the hotel came into view. He'd been so distraught over missing the last party, but now, he wished he could think of a way out if this one. Did nothing make him happy?

Had this been a charity event, he could at least feel as though he were supporting a worthy cause. But talking to petty rich people just for the sake of it was useless.

"Smile boys," Alfred said, pulling up to the curb, "Text me when you've had your fill of Gotham's finest."

Alfred only got groans in response as everyone filled out the car and braved the camera lights and yelling.

"Only a few hours," Bruce said, adjusting his tie, and leading the way, "Just getting our feet wet."

Dick was, as always, the first to shake off his funk. He smiled brightly, thanking the man who held the hotel door open for him, and shook Tim's shoulder playfully. He could make the dullest, stiffest of parties seem like an adventure if he really felt like it.

Jason, on the other hand, wouldn't lose his funk. He never did. He'd scowl hard enough to ward off and cut off any attempt at conversation. And typically, that worked. But there were some women who were undaunted by his angry, 'bad boy' persona, and tried to make conversation with him anyway.

The sound of the gentle music was louder than the actual guests. When the boys got out of the elevator on the 22nd floor, the sound of classical music helped them take a much needed deep breath before they entered the party that likely would last well into the morning.

At this point, everyone split off. Jason to the open bar, Dick to mingle, Bruce to speak with the hosts, and Damian right behind Bruce. Tim typically stuck to the outer perimeter of social events. He cruised by the food, observed the room, and if he were lucky, he'd find someone's small, designer dog. He got along better with the animals than he did the people.

Unfortunately, he found no pets. Only an annoying illusion that Tim nearly ran into. Junior lost his usual clothing of an old band shirt of Tim's with a pair of sweats, and now wore an identical suit to Tim's. His hair was gelled back, and aside from the makeup and green hair, he could be Tim's twin. He was stuffing his mouth with h'orderves on one of the tables, completely satisfied with being invisible, when Tim strolled by. Tim wished _he_ could be invisible pretty often.

" _Have you tried these scallop things?"_ Junior asked, trying to force Tim to eat one, " _They taste like hope and magic. And unicorn spit. And kitten dreams."_

Tim ate the scallop Junior stuffed in his mouth only because he knew the struggle would look… weird… to others, since they could not see Junior.

" _This is a bit of a dry crop, isn't it?"_ Junior asked, pausing in his feast to look around the slow moving room.

Even though Tim had been present all of five minutes, he was pretty bored, too. Everyone spoke in hushed voices. No one laughed. Everyone was shiny and sparkly and glittery and too bright to look at. This was a step down from bingo night with a group of seniors. At least _they_ could take a nap.

" _I'm gonna mingle,"_ Junior said, grabbing a handful of scallops from the table, " _Don't do anything I wouldn't do… which isn't much. Matter of fact, please, do something I_ _ **would**_ _do."_

Tim shook his head. Junior could go as far away as he wanted. He wasn't real, so he couldn't hurt anyone. And his silence and absence was always the best part of the day. Just one less thing to worry about.

Tim continued his pace around the room. He'd probably make about a hundred more rounds around the room in the course of the night, but Tim always rushed through the first one. As Robin, he was always cautious. Always paranoid. Until he gave any room or area a case over, he couldn't relax or focus. Being on edge like that was the most exciting thing to happen so far.

An eruption of laughter came from Tim's right. Dick was faking a smile awkwardly, though his smile seemed genuine enough, as a group of men clapped him on the back probably for saying some offhanded remark that they'd thought had been hilarious. Dick was not hilarious. He was just silly. But to these dry prunes, he was probably the most interesting person in the room.

For a moment, Dick and Tim locked eyes, and Tim smiled. If Dick could mouth 'help me' without anyone seeing, clearly, he would have. Tim just shrugged though, continuing his walk. Helping Dick would be feeding himself to the wolves, and that was unnecessary. Batman always said, 'If there's something better you can be doing, you should already be doing it'. There were a million quotes from both Batman and Bruce that Tim lived by. That one was one of his favorites. For someone with OCD, staying focused on one thing at a time was incredibly relieving. Though he tended to hyperfocus on things, he found it was better to hyperfocus on one task, than allow himself to get frustrated and frazzled over-multitasking.

Bruce was easy to spot, despite the crowded room. He was amongst the largest and loudest crowd of people, probably telling experiences he half made up, and telling jokes he didn't think was funny, but knew would win him points with the snobs around him. He was more popular than the host, which was always his goal.

When Tim thought of Bruce, a million things came to mind. But actor was one of the top words that fit the man. Bruce Wayne was nothing but an actor. As Batman, he pretended he was some big, intimidating, scary symbol that judged quickly and acted decisively. As Bruce Wayne, he was charming, funny, and got along with everyone. Unlike Dick, that was an act, too. For anyone outside of the immediate family, it would be nearly impossible to say just who, exactly, Bruce Wayne was. Was he more Bruce Wayne than Batman? Was he really charming and funny? Was he really scary and intimidating?

Even for Tim, it was hard to know exactly who the man was.

" _You say actor, I say liar."_

Junior was watching Bruce himself, leaning against a table full of food. Tim said food, but the table did not have the same caliber of food the other tables held. This table held pudding, plain bread, odd looking meat, boiled roots, pickles, vinegar, salt and cheese. No scallops.

Tim twisted his face at the food, looking up, at the curtain beside it. The giant, blood red curtain reached down from the ceiling and dropped until it swept across the floor elegantly. It seemed to be made of some heavy silk, judging by its folds. But red was an odd color to have curtains, considering the room was mostly gold and blue. The red clashed almost painfully now that Tim had taken notice. But he shrugged. Only rich people had curtains that were just as showy and as confusing as they were.

Tim turned back to the food briefly, before looking back up and watching the curtains, suddenly.

Most of the curtains were still and unmoving, like all the people in the room. But one curtain swayed a bit, slow and rhythmically. When Tim approached it, he found that the window it covered was opened.

Which wouldn't have been a big deal if the room hadn't been on the 22nd floor.

So high up, most windows _couldn't_ open. It was a major safety hazard. And inside of a ballroom, where guests had access to a bar, and could stay and drink as long and as much as they liked was the biggest, and dumbest, hazard Tim had seen in awhile. He wasted no time pulling the large and heavy window shut. Upon inspection, there didn't _seem_ to have been any tampering with the window. It just appeared that someone had opened it.

But so high up was unusual, and Tim made his way away from his protective walls and towards the middle of the room to alert Dick about the incident. The eldest would know what to make of it.

"No," Dick said, however, his voice hushed as he and Tim spoke separated from the crowds, "I don't know what to make of it."

"It shouldn't have been open," Tim said, and Dick nodded.

"Don't panic, Timmy," he said calmly, squeezing Tim's shoulder, though Tim knew he wanted to ruffle his hair, "Just because it's odd doesn't mean it's an unsolved mystery. But I'll tell Bruce about it, if you want."

" _I think_ _ **we**_ _should tell him."_

"I think you should."

Dick squeezed his shoulder again, offering a smile before he left to find their guardian. In the meantime, Tim would keep a sharp eye. Though Dick was right, in that this did not scream 'oncoming mystery', Tim could not shake the feeling of paranoia.

And, Junior suddenly didn't look very bored anymore. Instead, he seemed to be waiting, now. Excitedly watching and anticipating how the night would play out, like someone watching the premiere of a movie.

"Caviar canapes or chicken liver pate?"

The server that had offered the food had literally been a half second away from being knocked unconscious. Tim calmed himself quickly, scolding himself for not taking Dick's advice to calm down, and shook his head at the woman who held the platter out to him.

He hated caviar _and_ chicken liver. They were both a little too rich for his taste, and Alfred didn't use either very often so there was no acclimation for his taste buds.

The woman smiled and nodded, lifting her tray to move on to ask and offer her disgusting platter to the next person. Only someone rich and eager to show off their extreme wealth and 'acquired taste buds' would eat it.

When the woman moved, she showed the underside of her wrist, revealing a small tattoo that made Tim narrow his eyes. The small tattoo was that of a laurel, which was a 'crown' of sorts made of branches that honored warriors, scholars, and poets in ancient Rome. It was a symbol of triumph and of strength, and Tim could not pinpoint why her tattoo was so important all of a sudden.

He lived in a day and age where young people ran from the beaten path. Mainstream was an insult. Fitting in was spat at. Why _wouldn't_ someone get a tattoo that had ancient Roman meanings? That was cool to someone. Maybe not him, but to _someone._ He didn't usually judge people so quickly, so why now? What was so important about it?

" _I_ _ **like**_ _her."_

Dick. Tim needed Dick. Dick always calmed him, and right now, Tim could feel a panic attack looming. Dick would pat his shoulder. Take him outside. Whatever Dick did, Tim knew it would help. Dick was nowhere to be seen, nor was Bruce, and neither answered their phones when Tim called, so Tim assumed the two were somewhere talking about that open window. Another thing that had Tim on edge.

" _Chillax, kid. You're gonna have a heart attack with all that worrying."_

Kid. Jason called him 'kid' the few times he wasn't insulting Tim. Maybe Jason could offer some wisdom.

One thing about Jason: he was usually pretty easy to find. Fire in the sewers? Probably Jason. Dead rapist found in an alley? Probably Jason. Someone stole a pack of cigarettes _after_ rescuing the store owner? Jason. Open bar? _Definitely_ Jason.

Jason sat at the bar, as relaxed as if he were in a bar downtown, the stools on either side of him were empty and didn't look like they'd be filled anytime soon. Tim didn't want to know what scene Jason had caused to earn himself the privilege of being left alone, but for a change, Tim was glad Jason was the way he was. This gave Tim some privacy to speak to the man.

"Why?" Jason asked, questioning Tim's presence, when Tim sat beside him.

"One of the servers has a tattoo of a laurel," Tim said, straight to the point, "Does that ring suspicious to you?"

"Is this really how your brain works?" Jason said, setting his glass down and looking at Tim, "Does everything just seem suspicious? If it doesn't make sense to you, do you just lose your mind?"

" _Yeah, pretty much."_

"I'm not being paranoid," Tim lied, "And even if I was, don't I have a right to be?"

Jason shrugged, turning away and going back to his drink. Everyone in Tim's family was paranoid on some level. Jason certainly was.

"I just got a bad vibe from her, that's all." Tim said, thinking back to the short encounter.

"Do me a favor," Jason said, calmly, "Go tell Dick about every little thing that pops up in your brain. Let _him_ try and fix your imaginary issues. I'm not your babysitter, and I don't care."

That might have been more offensive if Tim wasn't used to Jason. The two had worked and lived together for a long time, and Jason's biting words was something Tim had to learn (was still learning) to not take too offensively. By now, he accepted that the two wouldn't get along, and that helped him push past the rude comment.

"I would have told Dick," Tim said, "But I'm not sure where he is."

A ruckus went up behind Tim and he and Jason turned around just in time to see one of the servers catch a platter full of champagne glasses another server had nearly tripped and thrown across the floor. The incident hadn't even been loud, but compared to the rest of the party, it might as well as been a drum solo. Everyone clapped for a second, applauding the near catastrophe before going back to their business.

The server, who had a blue highlight in the front of his hair, (which clashed with his red bowtie), had pulled off the entire move with a grace that Tim saw as unnatural. Jason didn't see it, clearly, because he turned back around to his drink as if nothing had happened.

"Did you see that?" Tim asked him, quietly, "Did you see how he moved? He was so… graceful."

Jason rolled his eyes and sighed.

"Look, if this is you telling me you're gay-"

"Jason, I'm serious." Tim scolded, "No one, but Dick, moves like that."

"Go get his number, then."

"Jason, I'm not gay. Just look at him."

Jason turned around reluctantly, and watched the man as he went back to offering his platters to the guests.

"Dancer." Jason said, turning back around.

The man walked right by Tim, offering his platter to a woman with a dress so sparkly, the lights above bounced off of it and she seemed to create her own luminescence. She denied an h'orderve, and the servers heavy accent hung in the air as he accepted that. It gave Tim a bad taste in his mouth.

"He's Egyptian."

"Racist."

Tim sighed. Jason wasn't helping. Maybe Tim _was_ being paranoid. Maybe he _was_ on edge. But this was how he solved mysteries, sometimes. There were days when _he_ couldn't even keep up with his brain. Clues and hints seemed to solve themselves and he didn't know he had the answer until later. All he'd have to go on was instincts and a bad taste in his mouth. Maybe this was one of those times. Maybe he'd solved a mystery or crime without knowing it yet, and his brain was simply playing catch up.

"I'm gonna find Dick," Tim hopping down off the stool.

Dick would take him seriously.

"Get lost while you do." Jason said, ordering himself another drink.

There were times when Tim just didn't get Jason. He was sure there were times when Jason just didn't get him, if Jason cared to wonder, that is. Jason _had_ been right on some level, though. Tim had a habit of sweating the small stuff. Nowadays, everything _did_ seem suspicious. If Tim couldn't solve it, he didn't like it. That was just the way he was. But how much of that was because of his stress and problems, and how much of that was because of his training as Robin?

An exact percentage would be greatly appreciated.

Tim sighed. Dick wasn't in the ballroom. Neither was Bruce. Jason was at the bar, and Damian was… there, over by one of the food tables. Damian was staring at the table full of oddities in wonder, like Tim had done before him. Damian didn't often leave Bruce's side, especially at a large event like this, so Bruce must have instructed him to stay behind. Maybe he and Dick found something else suspicious. Maybe they noticed the same things as Tim.

Making his way down a hallway, Tim decided he'd stray from the main area to find Dick. Dick could literally be anywhere. He wasn't like Jason at all. A door up ahead was wide open, and though that didn't scream 'Dick' it was still a bit odd and Tim went to investigate.

Now that he was aware of his own paranoia, he was fully expecting to find a server grabbing a mop or broom from a closet or something. Something normal and boring and made him force himself to relax.

He certainly didn't expect to find Junior alone in the closet. And he didn't expect the illusion to drag him in and lock the door either.

" _This is so much fun,"_ it said, his voice eerie in the dark closet, " _We should've came in here hours ago."_

"Let me out." Tim demanded, keeping his voice down, "I've got to find Dick."

" _I know where he is."_

Tim wouldn't fall for it. Junior had never told the straight truth. His answer would be cryptic and would probably make Tim think Dick was in trouble, though he wasn't. No, Tim could find Dick on his own. He was Robin after all, wasn't he?

"I don't need your help." Tim said, proudly, "I'm fine on my own."

Tim got no response. He reached his hands out in the darkness, only to feel emptiness. Junior was gone again, and that was fine. But when Tim tried to leave the closet, the door was locked from the outside.

That was typical of Junior.

Tim didn't let himself panic, though. Finding Dick had been… a pastime. Just a pastime. There was no emergency (yet). Nothing had gone sour (so far). All he had were some broken clues and a bad feeling.

So what a girl had a Roman tattoo? So what a guy had an Egyptian heritage? The Egyptian and Roman cultures were two very powerful empires but, what did that matter?

"Oh my God," Tim breathed, that _definitely_ mattered _._

He began banging on the door, screaming for help immediately.

He was such an idiot. Of _course_ that _mattered._ How had he missed it before? Ancient Rome. Ancient Egypt. The 16th century. Even that dancer guy, who totally was not a dancer. That assassin, the Scarab, that Dick had faced weeks ago. Tychno, the 16th century knight Jason had faced weeks ago. The woman with the Roman tattoo. The open window.

They were all connected.

The knights of the 16th century, Roman guards, and Egyptian soldiers were three of the most feared and fearsome societies in the history of time. That was three different time periods with three different fighting styles and three different sets of rules. Jason's assassin, Tychno, had been killed, though. The assassin was assassinated himself by decapitation, by what Jason had claimed was a curved sword. Curved swords were an Egyptian thing.

Had the assassins gone after each other? Had the Scarab killed Tychno? Why? And what did the girl with the Roman tattoo have to do with them? More importantly, why were they _here,_ at the gala?

Another server opened the door for Tim, her eyes knitted in confusion.

"This door doesn't have a lock…" she said, but Tim ignored her, pushing by and running down the hall.

He did not have time to find Dick or Bruce. Right now, he had to warn the people to evacuate. Whatever brought both assassins to the party put all the guests in danger. And like Bruce said: If there's something better you can be doing, you should already be doing it.

Tim ran into the room looking frazzled and shaken and probably his tie was crooked and hair blown back from running and his eyes were wide as he scanned the area quickly trying to locate the assassins. He was the most interesting thing to appear at the dull party and he gained everyone's attention without saying a word.

He caught Jason's eye immediately, but behind Jason, far back and against the wall by the once open window, the table of vinegar and pickles and plain bread was not just strange or odd anymore. Now, it reminded Tim of a typical meal shared by the upper class in the 1600's.

And Damian was still standing right in front of it.

"Damian!" Tim called, startling the boy who hadn't cared enough to turn and see who had gotten all the guests attention.

It was the perfect setup, and Tim adjusted his chain of priorities. He ran across the floor, the glitzy and higher class parting and backing from him like he had the plague. They feared being associated with someone so odd and attention grabbing. They were thrown from Tim's mind as the youngest Wayne fell deeper and deeper into danger.

Tim nearly called Damian a second time, nearly told him to get away from the table, to run, move, _something…_ but he was too late.

As if on cue, the table full of misplaced, but meaningful, food blew up with a sound that shook the entire hotel. Fire leapt out, setting expensive dresses aflame and scorching thousand dollar shoes and coattails.

Tim had been close enough to get thrown back, and he landed hard onto his side. His right leg burned and hurt and his ears rung. He was slightly aware of the chaos that erupted, the muted screams of the rich were the loudest he'd heard them yet. Many people were littered on the floor around him, some unconscious and some dead, but many more people trampled around him in fear as they ran for the exits and to their friends and loved ones.

The risk of being trampled was all but certain, but Tim found himself weakly and dizzily struggling to get to his feet.

And then Dick was there, pulling him to his feet. He smothered the fire Tim didn't even know was on his leg, and shielded him from the hard and absentminded jabs and shoves of the people around them.

It was odd to see, but even though these people were rich and famous and elite and refined, when their lives were in danger, they behaved just like ordinary people. It did not matter how far they looked down on their servers at this point, because some servers and rich alike _both_ lay dead on the floor and scrambled around, looking for a way out.

"Can you stand?" Dick yelled at him, and Tim nodded, struggling in being bumped around to read Dick's lips.

His ears still rang and the noise in the room had risen to deafening. Apparently, the doors were locked and/or barricaded from the outside. With nowhere to run to, the guests had all but lost their mind.

"Where's Damian?" Tim yelled, mouthing slowly to Dick so he could read his lips.

Tim had seen better days. He was burned and bruised, but Damian had been directly in front of that table/bomb. He'd taken more of the brunt than anyone. If that blast had killed a few, what condition was Damian in?

Dick shook his head, unsure, and then gripped Tim's arm tighter. It was best to make their way to the edges of the room, where they were least likely to be run over, but several gunshots in the air had everyone throwing themselves to the floor.

"Quiet!" came a strong, female voice.

Dick and Tim lay on their stomachs, side by side, watching the woman jump up onto the table that held the 'magic scallops'. The woman pulled her servers jacket off, revealing not only the Roman tattoo on her wrist, but a whole sleeve of tattoos that went up both arms.

She pulled her ponytail out and put her gun into the back of her pants, switching it with a sword she unsheathed from her back slowly.

"Now," she said, smiling at the quiet, "My name is Julia, and someone in here killed my brother."

* * *

Only Galas with the Waynes.

Cheers, everyone!

(ps: comment and let me know how you're liking so far. Suggestions?)


	10. Wake Me

**Recap: The Wayne's are attending a dull and insipid party that has kept Tim constantly, and unexplainably, on edge. After an explosion erupts, one that Damian was near to, a woman named Julia, who bears an ancient Roman tattoo on her wrist, has just shot up at the ceiling, claiming someone in the room has just killed her brother.**

 **Let us proceed:**

* * *

Tim's mind reeled. Julia's brother had to be Tychno. The Egyptian guy that walked around, smiling at the groups of people that lay at his feet in fear, had to be the Scarab. The three must have worked together.

But, they believed someone in the room had killed Tychno, and now, they sought revenge.

"Don't move." Dick whispered, when the Scarab passed by them, "Let Batman and Hood take care of them."

"We can help." Tim whispered, but Dick shook his head stiffly.

"No way for us to get out without giving ourselves away."

Tim hated this. He and Dick count easily take control of the situation, at least until Batman arrived. No one else had to die or get hurt. That was not guaranteed when Bruce and Jason had to go and change somewhere.

What was the point of being Robin if Robin didn't help _whenever_ he could?

"Stay put." Dick said, quietly but firmly, as if he felt Tim's frustration radiate off of him.

Though why shouldn't he feel the same way? Who was Nightwing if Nightwing didn't do all he could to save lives, either?

"We're gonna do this efficiently," Julia said, "Just like a factory, we'll do this like clockwork."

The man who was the Scarab grabbed a young server and an older woman and stood them up. He pushed them in front of Julia and stepped back.

"Now, our assassin doesn't want to die," Julia said, casually, "And he's not gonna let me cut his or her head off, like he did my brother."

"If you're the fellow we're looking for," the Scarab added, smiling, "Don't let Julia kill you."

The young server and older woman shook as Julia pulled back her sword. But Julia was halted when two bullets in her hand made her drop her sword.

"Ah, Batman and friend," the Scarab said, pulling his curved sword out, "I've been waiting _weeks_ to dance with you."

Julia pulled her gun out and trained it on Red Hood.

"Not nice, love." she said, "Not nice. That was my favorite hand."

Red Hood scoffed, and just like that, the sound of bullets and metal against gauntlets and screams and panic was back. Dick pat Tim's shoulder in reassurance before getting to his feet and taking off towards the door. As Dick Grayson, he couldn't fight two assassins. But, he _could_ help get the doors open and help the guests escape.

Tim didn't mind Dick leaving him. Though his hearing was slowly returning, his leg felt like it were still on fire. He'd only slow Dick down.

Instead, he army crawled towards the table that had blown. He had to find Damian. If the smart aleck kid wasn't beside Batman, then something was wrong.

Tim's aim had been to be inconspicuous. Behind him, Dick lead an assault against the barricaded door that involved the men actually getting their hands dirty and the women to remove their beloved shoes. But it seemed that the guests were relieved that someone, even someone much younger than them, was taking the lead and actually giving out instructions.

A tremendous crash sounded as Batman threw the Scarab into a serving cart. Julia shot at one of the large, sparkling chandeliers above, sending the sparkling light crashing to the marble floors. Red Hood dove out the way, returning fire immediately.

The heroes seemed to easily have the advantage, and though he was not apart of it, Tim still felt the rush of adrenaline and pride in a successful hit as if he were.

Tim found Damian face first, half buried under the still burning tablecloth. Tim confirmed immediately that Damian was alive, but he'd gotten a pretty hard knock to the head. Lucky for them, Damian had been in his fair share of explosions, and Batman would not allow Shadow in the streets if he were so easy to kill. Damian had known, even with milliseconds to react, exactly how to position himself so that the blast did not kill him.

The boy was unconscious, but he was not dead, and that was more than could be said for some of the other scattered bodies.

"This is quite the shindig!" a new voice yelled, gaining everyone's attention, "And all for me?"

The server with the blue stripe in his hair and red bowtie stood up on the last standing table, kicking off all the food. He stood tall and confident, and Tim actually saw how Jason could mistake the man's clear training as simply the elegance of a dancer.

"You!" Julia yelled, her gun trained on the man, " _You_ killed my brother!"

"And you killed him with _my_ sword _,_ " the Scarab spat, "He was my _friend,_ you prick."

"I'd hoped Julia would kill you, actually." the server shrugged, "Then I'd only have to kill her. Two birds, one stone, and all that."

"All this because of the hit on the Linderbugs?" the Scarab asked, "We got the parents and sister, didn't we? You killed Micheal over the maid that got away?"

"You were supposed to be professionals," the server said, "Everyone was supposed to die and you know it. You mess up, _you_ die. That's the contract."

"New contract," Julia said, gripping her sword, "Tonight, we cut _your_ head off."

Julia rushed at the server, but was easily overpowered, even with the Scarab assisting.

Lucky for her, Batman could beat them all, and in no time, he and Red Hood had the whole gang unconscious and rounded up. During the meat of the fight, Tim had hid himself and Damian behind one of the curtains. He couldn't allow himself and Damian to be used as something to distract the Dark Knight or used as a liability. But now, he pulled the curtain back, revealing them both.

Though the police had been called early, and arrived swiftly, they and Dick hadn't been able to break through the barricade as quickly as one would have hoped. But Dick had managed to get everyone down one of the hallways and stowed away out of danger.

Now that the fight was over, guests timidly trickled back into the ballroom. Batman and Red Hood were nowhere to be found, but Bruce Wayne and Jason would show up in a few minutes.

For now, the police finally broke the double doors down, freeing the still frightened and shaking guests. Julia, the Scarab, and the assassin server were taken into custody by commissioner Gordon and police officers began speaking to witnesses. The paramedics began checking the guests and it seemed like the worst was over.

Dick ran over to Tim and Damian the same time Bruce and Jason approached. All three of them looked a bit winded and dirty, and Tim felt shame over not having done anything to help. Keeping Damian safe while he was unconscious was important, but was there something more important he should have been doing?

"He was by the table when it blew," Tim said, scooting away to give Bruce room to look the boy over himself.

If Dick had gotten hurt, everyone would worry and wonder when Dick would he back to his normal, hyper self. If Jason got hurt, everyone would wonder how long until the man stopped snapping at people out of frustration because of the situation. If Bruce had gotten hurt, everyone would wonder how long until the man took himself off of probation and did as he liked.

But with Damian, it was different. Damian had been hurt plenty of times, but for some reason, every time felt like the first.

Damian was the youngest. His pain was all of theirs. When he got hurt, their was always guilt plaguing their minds. _Someone_ should have been there. _Someone_ should have protected him. He was only a child.

"He'll be fine," Bruce announced, and everyone sighed.

Even Tim felt relieved, despite having come to his own diagnosis of Damian.

Bruce scooped Damian up carefully, and Dick helped Tim to his feet. His leg screamed in protest and Tim winced. He'd inspected a nasty third degree burn that stretched from his shin, right beneath his knee, and went all the way to the back of his calf, right above his ankle. He knew it would heal, but for now, he put his weight onto Dick and let the man help him out the door, down the escalator, and to the limo that Alfred stood by.

"Everything's prepared at home already, sir." Alfred said, opening the car door for them.

They all looked worse for wear as they slowly climbed in, but most of that was for show. Cameras were trained on them, reporters called out to them, police officers asked them questions. Bruce waved them all off, claiming they were tired and had been through a lot, but it was more exhausting dealing with them than the actual assassins. It took most of Bruce's skills just to convince the paramedics that Damian should be home and would be well looked after there.

Bruce held Damian tightly, and Tim pursed his lips as the car pulled off.

" _Bet Bruce wouldn't hold you if you'd been the one to get hurt."_

Junior only raised his eyebrows, his face alone making a point as he climbed in after Jason.

The ride home was silent as everyone looked back and reflected, and for the most part, they were all inside their own heads. All but Jason, whom Tim could feel staring intensely at him. Jason sat directly across from Tim, but Tim resisted making eye contact and chose to stare out the window instead.

"Go ahead and ignore me," Jason said, leaning forward onto his knees, "It's not gonna do you any good. We live together, remember?"

"Leave him alone, Jay," Dick sighed, "We're all tired and just need a good night's rest."

"Maybe _we_ do," Jason said, "But _he_ didn't do anything to help."

"He watched over Damian," Dick defended, "I saw him. That's help enough, isn't it?"

"It might've been if he hadn't of known about the whole damn scheme in the first place."

" _Ooh, language."_

Everyone looked at Jason with furrowed eyebrows. Even Alfred looked back through the rearview mirror. Junior was in the seat beside Jason, trying to copy Jason's smug face and mimicking Jason's sitting position. He moved as Jason moved, and spoke when he spoke.

"I didn't know." Tim said simply.

"You didn't ask me if the assassin seemed strange?" Jason asked.

" _That blue hair and red bowtie was the real crime tonight. Talk about clashing colors."_

"I did," Tim agreed, somewhat hesitant.

"You didn't ask Dick about the open window?"

"You told him?" Tim asked, looking to his eldest brother.

Dick put both his hands up in innocence, "I didn't know it was a _secret_."

" _Dick, everything we tell you is a secret. You'd think he'd get that by now."_

"You knew enough to know that table would blow before it did," Jason went on, "It's _your_ fault Damian got knocked out. He's probably in a coma."

"I _tried_ to warn him-" Tim threw.

"You didn't _try_ ," Jason spat, "You disappeared for an hour and ran back into the room to try and make it _look_ like you wanted to save him. We all know you don't like him."

" _Are we really that obvious?"_

"Yeah, but... wait, _no…_ I mean-"

"Jason, stop." Dick demanded.

"I don't like the kid," Jason said, sitting back, "but I have a particular hatred towards people getting blown up."

The limo turned smoothly onto the highway, but the conversation had somehow headed down a rocky road. Tim had been locked in that closet for an hour? He hadn't known it had been that long. How could he explain that his illusion had put him there? That he'd been trapped in a room with no lock? That he'd _wanted_ to warn everyone much sooner than he had, but couldn't?

They would never believe him, and Junior would make sure he looked and sounded as crazy as he possibly could.

They all saw this as his fault now, didn't they?

" _Duh! Look at their judging faces."_

If Tim had warned them all earlier, no one would have died. No one would have been hurt. Damian wouldn't be unconscious. He could have prevented it all if he'd of gotten a handle on himself, calmed down, and actually stood up to Junior.

And now look at the damage he'd caused. People were _dead._

Dick stared at Jason, his expression unreadable, but Bruce looked Tim right in his eyes. Unwavering, undaunted, beams of blue that seemed to have lost all faith and confidence in him. The short, cordial sentences they'd been exchanging for weeks suddenly seemed like a godsend.

Tim knew how much Bruce loved Damian. Everyone could tell. _Anyone_ could tell. The man was holding the boy like he was a newborn, for crying out loud. Of course Bruce was taking this hard. And to know that it had been Tim's fault? Deep down, he felt he was innocent in this. _He_ knew it was all Junior's fault. But who was Junior without Tim? No one but him understood that. No knew that his actions were not entirely his own. And that hurt and frustrated him to the point that hot, angry tears clouded his vision. He was tired of lying for Junior, and to who's benefit?

If Bruce didn't hate him before, he certainly did now.

They were on the highway, but Alfred slowed down to let another car ahead of him get into the slow moving lane and Tim used the lull to his advantage. He grabbed the door handle beside him, and in a burst, he opened it, jumped out, slammed it shut, and ran across the busy highway.

If Tim could dodge bullets on a daily basis, he could cross a highway, and he did so with ease. Dick screamed after him, and Tim assumed the man had tried to follow, but the sound of a blaring horn, followed by more screaming after him gave Tim reassurance that Dick hadn't been able to follow.

Alfred couldn't stay in the middle of the highway and Bruce wouldn't let Dick try that stunt again, so Tim slowed his run to a jog, taking some pressure off his hurt leg.

He'd run into thick brush that had looked very serene and peaceful while in the car, but now seemed dark and ominous. Adrenaline coursed through him and his heart raced, but the weight of his rash decision descended on him gradually and the situation became more surreal every passing moment. The further into the woods he walked, the quieter it became. There were no lights ahead, and the ones behind him did not penetrate through the trees very far.

But what did it matter? It was probably better to be out in the woods than at home right now anyway. Junior trailed along behind him, stalking him like he were a deer, having the time of his life. Any situation that caused Tim any amount of distress gave Junior a good kick and bout of entertainment. Happy Junior seemed to be a prerequisite to a bad decision, so distance from home was probably a good idea.

" _I hate that Damian's name is three syllables. How am I supposed to put his name in the nursery rhyme, if it's two syllables too long?"_

Jason was right about one thing: Tim _didn't_ really like Damian. The boy was stubborn and stuck-up and self entitled and rash. Of everyone in the house, he probably believed the hardest that Tim didn't deserve to live there. But Damian was still Tim's 'kind-of-brother' and that put Damian's life over that of a stranger, or even a pedestrian or civilian. He'd never hurt Damian to that extent on purpose. He'd never wish for anything bad to happen to him _or_ Jason, in all honesty.

All of this happened because of _Junior_. Junior had locked Tim in the closet and wasted time. Junior had distracted him and kept him on edge. If he could've just calmed down, then maybe the night wouldn't of escalated like it had.

" _Hush little Dami, don't you cry. Timmy's gonna make sure you burn and die…"_

Tim stopped walking and turned to Junior slowly. If anyone knew how to push Tim's buttons, it seemed that Junior won hands down. Tim hated _,_ hated, _hated_ nursery rhymes and Junior's repeated butchering of them finally pushed Tim over the edge and won the illusion a firm uppercut.

Tim knew that fighting Junior was useless. The boy was faster, stronger, and far more skilled than Tim was. But after one successful uppercut, Tim could hardly contain the next eight. Or the left hook. Or the kick to the illusions chest. Or the jab to its ribs. Or the punch in it's bloody, smiling mouth.

It felt good to let some of that pent up frustration out. To beat up a foe he knew was dangerous without the restraint of inflicting only the necessary amount of damage. The freedom to hit as hard as he could without fear of killing it made every punch stronger than the last and every kick more precise and sharper.

He fought the unresponsive illusion until he was out of breath. Junior didn't bruise, or bleed, but now that he confirmed that Tim was finished, he looked at Tim with a smile Tim had not seen before.

Punches came so fast Tim had no time to anticipate them. He could only put his arms up to shield his face. But that left his hurt leg exposed, which Junior exploited in a way that could only be described as evil and unfair.

What would happen if Tim died out there? Would it appear that he'd killed himself? Would there be evidence of a struggle?

And then Tim was on the ground, writhing, trying to scream while simultaneously trying to ward of Junior and catch his breath. Junior sat on his stomach with a shoelace, produced from who knew where, wrapped around Tim's throat. He smiled as he tightened it a little at a time.

" _Hush little Timmy, it's not so bad. I'm gonna send you to see your dad."_

The last time Tim had seen his mother, she'd sung him a lullaby. He'd been nine years old and home from boarding school for his spring break. Janet and Jack Drake had been preparing to go on another impromptu trip, this time to Egypt, and Tim had thrown a tantrum at being left alone with only maids again. One week off from school, and his parents hadn't cared to stick around.

Tim had pouted on his parents bed while maids packed Janet's bag. She'd been more interested in what outfits to approve of and what outfits to leave behind than Tim crying beside her.

But when Tim had raised his voice, sniffing and whining and upset about being ignored, Janet had begun singing _Hush Little Baby_. Her version of the lullaby didn't rhyme, and she hadn't put any effort into using comforting phrases. Tim had picked up on her lack of love in the song, even at nine. Tim wanted to believe her heart had been in the right place, and that she'd truly tried to comfort him, but her efforts, as always, we're half hearted when it came to him. The experience summed up their relationship perfectly, and from that day on, lullabies became something he loathed. Something that represented broken promises, disappointment, and death.

" _And if your daddy hates you, still. I'm gonna make you murder and kill."_

Tim passed out to that grotesque tune.

* * *

When Tim came to, he did so with a painful gasp and raspy cough. He rolled himself onto his stomach, wheezing, his hand going to his throat.

Junior was nowhere to be seen, but that meant nothing, really, since he could appear and disappear into thin air. If Tim had been killed this night, it would probably look like suicide, and the truth about all that had happened would never come to light. Bruce would never know all the things that had really happened. Dick would always wonder.

Tim could not stay there. He clearly hadn't been unconscious for very long, but he had a journey ahead of him. Shakily, he got to his feet.

He just had to make it home.

Which, in the end, flew by in a blur. Despite his sore leg, Tim had run the whole way. Through the rest of the woods, passed the next exit, into town, down the long country road, and up the driveway, Tim went. All the while, he wondered if he were running _to_ his home, or _away_ from something. He couldn't outrun Junior, the boy could be wherever he wanted. But how much of a safe haven did hone provide anyway?

The run had given him plenty of time to think the night through more thoroughly. And it gave him time to reflect on the fight with Junior he'd just had.

In the beginning, Junior had been something to be ignored. Then he became annoying. Then concerning. But now, Tim knew Junior was definitely an enemy. From stalling Tim at the gala, to nearly choking him to death in the woods, Junior had done nothing truly beneficial for Tim. The small bouts of helpfulness he had, like wrapping Tim's hands and making him laugh when he felt low, we're overshadowed by events like the bloody skating rink that hadn't actually existed. Junior blinded Tim from the bad he did, by distracting him with small favors and bouts of kindness.

Tim slowed down, catching his breath, when he came to the grand stairs that lead up to the front doors of Wayne Manor. It seemed oxymoronic to run home only to suddenly feel hesitant about entering.

Tim knew that what happened to Damian was not entirely his fault. Forces outside of himself had leant a hand to keep him from doing his best to save the boy. But how did everyone else see the situation? Tim already knew where Jason stood on the situation…

Tim froze stiff near the top of the stairs. He'd taken his time climbing them, but now, he skipped steps, making his way to the breathing mound that slouched against the doors of the manor.

Dick was out cold, buried under a thick blanket. He hadn't even changed out of his suit, though he'd taken his shoes off. He had been there the whale time, Tim knew, and he regretted the worry he put his brother through. How often did Dick lay awake in bed, worried about him?

"Dick," Tim whispered, squatting down to shake the man's shoulder gently.

Dick popped up with a start, blinked at Tim twice, then stood and pulled Tim in for the tightest hug Tim had had in a long time.

"You scared me, Tim. You scared us all," Dick said, still holding Tim, "We know it's not your fault. Jason's had a rough week, that's all. He took that out on you."

Tim did not hug Dick back, but he reveled in the feeling all the same. Too many times had he denied Dick this. Too long had he fought to push the man away. He'd almost forgotten how good the hugs had actually felt.

"Damian's awake," Dick said, pulling back, "He's a little banged up, but he's gonna make a complete recovery. Your warning, no matter how late it seemed, actually _did_ give him enough warning to protect his head at least."

" _Dammit. And I thought the family-member-in-a-coma-followed-by-death could be like, a trend with us. We had the startings of a streak going."_

Tim frowned at the being that mocked him. Junior stood behind Dick, doing a handstand casually. Dick moved his head purposefully, blocking Junior from Tim's sight and frowned, too.

"You saved his life, Tim." Dick emphasized, hoping to get a positive reaction from Tim, "He'll probably want to thank you, you know."

Tim hardly heard Dick. His attention was on Junior, who got out of his handstand and reached into his pocket, pulling out a pocket knife and flipping it open.

" _So, the little hobbit lives, but who can we try to kill next? Dick or Jason? You pick. I want to kill 'em both, so it doesn't matter to me."_

"Let's get you inside," Dick said, grabbing Tim's arms and guiding him into the house.

Tim would say Dick was coddling him, as the eldest walked him through the kitchen, but was it really so bad to be coddled? Alfred gave him cookies and hugged him for a whole two minutes. Dick would have hugged him again, for no other reason besides the fact that Alfred had hugged him, but Tim began resisting their efforts. He was feeling smothered, and juniors threats began taking hold of his thoughts. How could he protect his family from himself?

Alfred smacked Tim upside his head lightly, for running onto the highway, and then proceeded to give a stern lecture about highway safety and not taking his skills and abilities for granted. He made sure he emphasized how everyone had worried about him. How Oracle had not been able to find him. How upset Damian had been to find Tim was not only not around when he woke, but was technically missing. Tim didn't believe Damian had really worried about him, but the thought was nice.

On a sympathetic note, Alfred recounted how hard losing his own father had been, though he hadn't known the man very well himself. He spoke of the mixed feelings and rash choices he'd made himself when he found he was an orphan. Tim knew Alfred chalked his behavior up to losing his father. It seemed everyone felt as though Tim was not reacting… healthily.

A part of Tim wished he could tell Dick and Alfred that his father's death was not bothering him. A part of him was relieved that Jack went peacefully, in his sleep. Part of him _did_ care.

But then there was…

" _Jack be nimble, Jack be quick…"_

Tim listened with an absent mind as Alfred spoke. He only half heard the man, instead, putting his efforts into ignoring Junior. Blocking everything out was easier than selective blocking, so Junior's voice and Alfred's voice meshed together, forming a string of incoherent lies and advice and jokes and wisdom. And though blocking everything calmed Tim's nerves, it showed easily on his face. Dick could see from a mile away that Tim had zoned out, and Alfred knew Tim hadn't heard a word. Tim was not sure when the lecture ended, but he still nodded at both men as if he'd heard and understood, then went up to his room.

He shed his clothes, climbed into bed, and pulled his blankets up. His father _was_ dead, whether he felt pity over that or not. Which meant he had a funeral to plan. A funeral to attend. Alfred would help with the finer details, but would Dick attend the funeral with him? Would Bruce? Would Junior?

" _Sure, I'll go. Maybe we can push Bruce in the grave with Jack. That'll make 'em laugh."_

Junior opened the window wide and climbed up on it. He sat on the sill letting his legs dangle out the window and stared up the stars.

" _Jack jumped over the candlestick…"_

* * *

 _Tim found himself in the library. Book after book of murder mystery lay open around him, and for some reason, Tim felt compelled to solve them all in under ten minutes. He hated time limits._

 _He was writing solved case after case in a notebook on his lap when Junior strolled into the room. He did not_

 _wear sweats or t-shirts like Tim was used to him wearing. Instead, he wore a purple jacket and pants with a green striped shirt and a flower in his jacket pocket._

 _He looked like the Joker, and for the first time since seeing him first, Tim was terrified of him. He let his notebook slide down onto the floor as he stood up hesitantly and backed away from the boy._

" _Aww, you're afraid." Junior slurred, grinning widely and showing his yellowed teeth, "Good. You should be."_

" _Leave me alone." Tim instructed, getting a laugh from Junior._

" _Don't you know how this ends, Timmy?" Junior laughed, "There can't be_ _ **two**_ _Tim's in the world. There's no good cop, bad cop. It's either me, or you. And I choose me."_

" _I'm in control." Tim said, confidently, "_ _ **I'm**_ _in control._ _ **You're**_ _not real."_

 _Junior felt no need to argue about this with words, and instead, he leaped at Tim, his sole intent to kill him._

 _Tim had been in fights to save his own life before. He knew he oughtn't panic. But the moment Junior landed one, then two, then four punches straight at Tim's face with no resistance it seemed, Tim knew this fight would most definitely be his last._

 _In a last ditch effort to get the upper hand, Tim grabbed the long iron fork he used to stoke the fire and tried to hit Junior with it. He was able to land a good, solid hit to Junior's head._

 _The cut on Junior's head from the hit seemed to split his head open, and blood gushed out unrealistically. Still, Tim dropped the stoker. He couldn't kill the boy, even if he wasn't real. He'd either lose with a clear conscience, or win the old fashioned way._

 _He charged first, this time, but Junior blocked everything he threw. Every punch, kick, and jab was met with two or three punches and kicks and jabs in return, each one landed perfectly on Tim's body and face._

" _Stop fighting me, Tim." Junior laughed, "I am you, and you are me. We're the same person. The sooner you come to that conclusion, the better off we'll be. Just let me take over. Let me take the reins and run around for a bit."_

" _I am_ _ **not**_ _you." Tim said, being pushed up against the brick wall behind him, "I'm nothing like you. Leave me alone."_

" _Stop fighting me." Junior repeated, and his voice was suddenly darker, and seriouser, and his smile was fading, but the bloody grin never changed._

 _Tim knew he should run now, and he made his escape into the hallway. As he ran, the walls around him closed in until there was nowhere to go but forwards and backwards. He ran until the hallway ended, and a wall stood before him, brick and impenetrable._

 _Tim whipped around to see Junior slowly walking towards him. He had nowhere to go and no way to escape the boy._

" _Just except it, Timbo," Junior said, that smile returning. "We're the same. So stop fighting me."_

 _Junior lunged, and just like that, Tim knew no self defence. He fell to the ground as Junior climbed on top of him, his bony fingers around Tim's neck as he choked him._

* * *

A scream tore from Tim's throat as he half woke, and the first thing he did was fight the hands that clasped him. He wouldn't let Junior kill him. He wouldn't let Junior take over. He wouldn't let Junior win.

"Timmy, stop!" came a voice, "Stop fighting me!"

Tim only fought harder. He kicked out with his legs and he scratched any skin his fingers made contact with. He screamed incoherently, hoping that somewhere, someone would come to his aid.

But then he couldn't move. He was immobilized, and it was hard to breath. And that meant Junior had won. Junior had taken over. Was he dead?

Tim let out a pained sob, and all he could do was stop fighting and go limp. Exhaustion took over and nightmares pulled him back into it's void of disturbing scenarios and distorted memories.

* * *

Dick brushed Tim's hair back. He'd wrapped Tim in his own blankets to stop him from fighting. Dick had a nasty scratch on his arm, but besides that, he was fine.

Tim had cried silently, bound in his blanket, as Dick brushed his hair, but now he was sleeping again. His face was scrunched tight in discomfort and painful thoughts, and Dick mimicked Tim's look of distress. Jason was nowhere to be seen (hadn't been since they returned home), nor was Alfred, but Damian stood in the doorway, his brows knitted in annoyance with being woken by screaming.

"Damian, go get a glass of water." Dick instructed, but the young boy didn't move.

" _Damian_." Dick insisted, and the young boy rolled his eyes but left.

Damian was totally healed from the gala, but had recently taken to using the gala as an excuse to feign deafness whenever Dick asked for a favor or instructed him to do something.

"Come on, Timmy." Dick said, shaking the boy slightly, "Wake up. Everything's alright now."

Tim was out cold though, lulled back to sleep by his own exhaustion.

For now, Tim seemed to be over his nightmare, but Dick made himself comfortable right beside him. He couldn't leave Tim like that. He'd watch over the boy for the night just to make sure Tim really was alright. From his kidnapping by the Joker, to his rocky relationship with Bruce, to Jason and Damian, to his father's recent death, Tim was going through an incredibly rough time. Even by hero standards. Even by _Wayne_ standards.

Dick would not leave Tim to face that alone. Even in his dreams.

Every single person in the house had nightmares. That just came with their alter ego jobs. But it seemed like Tim's nightmares were the most known. Everyone else could skate by with a gasp, or maybe a call for help or a yelp. Tim always screamed. Full blown shrieks of terror, nothing held back, kind of screams. Which was the opposite of how he truly was. It was always the sound of agony from him. Always a total immersion and inescapable nightmare that he couldn't wake himself from.

"Bruce," Dick whispered, getting out of the bed carefully, "I think this is one of his worse fits."

Bruce came from behind the doorway and leaned against the door frame.

He was always nearby when someone had a nightmare. Always behind a door, or in a shadow, or just a room away. Knowing Bruce was lurking around in the dark never helped Dick after a nightmare, a constant comment Bruce ignored, but it was nice to know Bruce was nearby just in case it was a dream he couldn't shake.

"He's so different now," Dick said, going into the hallway and cracking the door behind him, "We've got to figure out what the Joker did to him."

Bruce nodded slowly, "It's complicated to judge his behavior after everything that's happened. Death can turn us into different people."

Who in the bat-family didn't know that?

"How many friends has Tim lost, though?" Dick sighed, "He's no stranger to death. But his behavior lately… "

"Losing a parent is different."

"Didn't help that you told him during dinner. In front of all of us."

"You and Alfred are best at comforting him," Bruce said, walking across the hallway and sitting on the step, "It's important we surround him with people who care."

"We _all_ care," Dick said, following him to the stairs, "But I don't think he's over his kidnapping."

"He's certainly not."

"The leads you sent me on were dead ends," Dick sighed, "There's no trace of Joker and we're still not even sure that something was done to Tim. But he's so pale now. I didn't think he could even _be_ any paler than he'd been."

"His eyes have darkened," Bruce added, "He's holed up in his room most of the day, he's distracted. He doesn't always focus on who he's talking to. His hands always shake. Signs of trauma."

"But he doesn't remember what happened to him. How can their be trauma?"

Bruce sighed, as he thought. His approach to let time heal Tim was not working, as Dick so blatantly pointed out. The boy needed more help than that. There was much more about Tim that he'd noticed, but did not tell Dick. Dick was a worrier. He was already in distress about the situation.

"His words don't quite meet his eyes," Dick mentioned quietly, "You seen how absent he's seen? Like he's not with us, but he is."

"He'll be fine," Bruce said, squeezing Dick's shoulder and standing. "He's strong."

"He has to be," Dick muttered, "He lives with you."

Bruce made his way down the stairs, probably headed to the cave to look more into the events at the gala. It was top priority now to find out who had hired The Scarab and Julia and Tychno for the assassination. So far, the assassin that had killed Tychno had not given away any useful information.

"Kick Damian's butt while you're down there," Dick said, standing up, "He was supposed to bring Tim some water."

Bruce muttered a reply as he crossed through the living room.

* * *

 **And that's all she wrote for the day.**

 **Cheers!**


	11. Stabbed in the Heart

Tim had heard Dick leave the room early in the morning. At some point during the night, the burn dressing on his leg had been replaced and a cooling salve had clearly been applied. But besides that, there was no trace of anyone but himself in the room. He'd known Dick had stayed with him all night. But that had made him uneasy instead of comforted.

When he'd finally woken from his nightmare, Junior had been laying on the pillow beside him, sandwiching him between it and Dick.

" _Now we can have some real fun,"_ it had said, and since, Tim could not wrap his head around what that might mean.

In his dream, Junior had fought for control. Had that just been a dream, or did it really means something? Did Junior really want to take over his body? It became the one subject Tim could not just shake his head and forget about.

Tim decided early that he'd sleep in. He felt like he'd been hit by a bus. His throat was sore from being choked in the woods. He was congested. His nose was stuffed. His head hurt and vertigo hit whenever he moved.

Taking a dip in the harbor and walking home in the cold for days was finally catching up to him. He'd finally gotten himself sick.

" _What's a little cold? If you can fight Bane on a bad day, you can fight a cold on a good day."_

Tim jumped at the voice that spoke from the foot of the bed. Tim wished, desperately, that just the sound of Junior's voice was not all it took to make his hands clammy and shake. To make his throat go dry and heart beat wildly. He wished Junior didn't scare him and make him feel like panic attacks were always imminent.

" _We should go out again. See the town. Paint it red._ _ **Really**_ _red. The whole shebang. Dick's fussing over the brat, and no one else is coming to check on us. We should gooo."_

It seemed like forever since Tim's most pressing thought was whether he should shower before bed or in the morning. When his most pressing thought was what to eat for breakfast. When his most pressing thought was trying to make good with his older and younger brother. When trying to make Bruce proud was his only goal.

Exactly when _did_ Junior show up? When was the first time Tim had lost track of time, and woke up having done something he didn't remember doing? When did his most pressing thought become figuring out how to keep himself locked away in solitude, for his family's safety? When did his one and only goal become trying not to hurt anyone?

" _Let's play a game…"_

If Tim could just focus for a moment, he might be able to think of a solution. He just had to concentrate and get through a solid thought, for a change. If he knew when it all began, maybe he could figure out what had caused it. And maybe, how to fix it.

Truth be told, he hadn't quite felt the same since-

" _The old man died. Haven't been the same, right?"_

Yes, since his father had died he'd been different. It was probably because-

No. No, that wasn't what he'd thought. His father's death _was_ a significant change in his life, but it hadn't really changed _him_. Though… maybe it should have. He was an orphan now. Wasn't that important? Why hadn't he cried about it?

What had been thinking about?

Something about… Junior. That's right. When did the illusion first appear? When did everything shift and change? Was it after he'd been kid-

" _Kidding around with Dick, probably. Why'd you hit him with that book?"_

The book. Why _had_ Tim hit his brother in the face with a book? That was so horrible. Dick was such a good person. He didn't deserve that. He didn't deserve a lot of the things Tim had done to him recently. Though Dick tended to shake Tim's clear blatant disregard of Dick's feelings with a laugh, it was no laughing matter.

 **It's Funny.** It wasn't funny.

Funny. What was funny? Who was laughing? Joker. Joker was laughing? And he laughed, and he laughed, and he laughed, but nothing was funny. It never was. The world was fire. Every breath burned. His lungs contracted and he couldn't breathe. He was drowning. And it wasn't funny, but all he heard was laughter and buzzing and jokes that made no sense… Jokes. Jokes that didn't mean anything. That didn't distract him from the burning. From drowning. From the laughter. From-

From…

From…

From…

What had he been thinking of? 'From' what? 'From' who? He'd lost his train of thought completely, and he closed his eyes tight in frustration.

He'd been thinking about something… something important. He was remembering a point in time that he'd forgotten. That he'd blocked from his memory. That he tried his hardest, even subconsciously, not to prod and relive. But… maybe he needed to. Maybe he needed to go back. Back to those thoughts he'd had. Back to the month he'd barely endured. Back to being held hostage. Back to…

Back to… back…

" _...to life. Back to reality."_

Yes, back to reality. Reality. And reality was… this. This was reality. But… how could Tim be sure? After what happened at the rink…

The door opened slowly, suddenly, and Dick poked his head in.

"You up, Tim?" he asked, and Tim sat up wordlessly.

Was _this_ reality?

"I know you aren't feelin' well," Dick said, entering, "You had a high fever this morning."

"I feel a bit better, I guess," Tim lied, looking down at his blanketed legs.

"Good. I was just down in the cave, Luscious brought those prototypes over. I _was_ gonna let you sleep in this morning, but, I need you're help."

Dick held up what looked to be a thermal gun. From the report Tim had read a while back, this gun had high res imaging that could take readings up to four miles away. And with precise targeting and a powerful centralization system, it could even see through some materials.

Tim had been waiting weeks to get his hands on the small gun. Technology. Weapons. Gadgets. Computers. They drew his attention like bats to the dark. Tim lived and breathed unbreakable firewalls. He spoke in arithmetic. He dreamed in code. He saw ciphers, and keys, and cryptograph, and programming in the back of the cereal box. It was his _life._

Or at least, it used to be.

"I've got all the coding programmed right, I'm sure," Dick said, looking the thermal gun over, "But this thing is-"

"Backwards," Tim said, laying back down.

"What?"

"You've got the polarity backwards. The positive side of the battery should touch the negative side. Right now it's backwards."

Dick switched the battery direction and immediately, the thermal gun hummed to life. Dick laughed at the simplicity of the error and smiled at Tim.

"Timmy, you're a genius."

"I try," Tim shrugged, and a gentle _swoosh_ of the gun sounded when Dick pointed the gun at him.

"99.2," Dick read, "Small fever."

"I've worked through worse."

"You should come down to the cave," Dick said, putting the gun in his back pocket, "All that new gear from Luscious... You love putting it all together."

Tim stared up at his ceiling. He _did_ usually love it. But instincts told him he should stay in his room. It was safer for everyone.

"Come on, Tim." Dick said, "It's Bruce's last night here, let's all be together for once. He goes off world in the morning."

That was an even more frightening thought. As long as Bruce was around, Tim knew he couldn't kill or hurt anyone. With Bruce gone, who would make sure he stayed in check?

"There's a frequency scrambler," Dick teased, "Damian'll probably put the boosters on _crooked_."

"Stop it," Tim said, just the thought of such fine equipment being mistreated hurt his heart.

"Jason will probably choose a stupid password for the new signal booster, and he won't dust the screen, or wear gloves so his fingerprints'll be all over it…"

Tim's nostrils flared, but Dick smiled. He actually laughed when Tim flipped the covers off and grabbed a pair of socks from his drawer.

"There we go!" Dick exclaimed, "Now we're mobile."

"I'm doing this for the efficiency of the equipment," Tim said, "Not because I want to."

"You're an ally to the cause," Dick joked, and Tim rolled his eyes.

Tim would be safe with Dick. He would. As long as he kept close to the older boy, what could hurt him? Who could _he_ hurt? Everything would be fine.

"We'll still probably put something on backwards or upside down," Dick shrugged, "but that's why we have you. You make sure Bruce doesn't know, so now he won't crack down and make us train about it."

Packages from Luscious were like graduation gifts. The neatly secured boxes had everything but a bow on top. But it didn't matter to any of the boys.

Down in the cave, Jason was climbing the wall with gloves that used the moisture in the rock to create an adhesive that gave him a grip strong enough to support his weight twice over. Damian was looking through a pair of goggles that could detect the amount of iron within a person's blood. He was currently studying Alfred. Bruce looked on the computer at a new security code Luscious had advised him to implement into the cave.

Dick skipped down the steps, eager to get back to unboxing, but Tim trailed behind. Junior was not present at the moment, but that did not mean he wasn't nearby.

"Tim, come here!" Dick called, motioning the boy to move faster, "Check this out."

Tim didn't bother moving faster, but he did breathe a little easier when Dick grabbed a box and took it away from the main area and towards one of the work stations that was separated. No one bat an eye when Dick did it, but if Tim had grabbed the boy and moved it, he was pretty sure World War III would break out.

He wondered briefly what it would be like to be as accepted and trusted as Dick. To be able to shrug off problems and smile in the face of adversity. To have loving parents to look back on. To show emotions so easily, and speak so freely, and laugh so openly, and care for people so unreservedly.

Dick really was a bird, wasn't he?

"Look at this," Dick said taking parts out of the box and laying it on the table when Tim approached, "All the parts to a mini drone. It's camouflage is supposed to be six times better than the one we have. The triple propellers and air thrusts give us more control and the padded blades make this thing nearly as silent as us."

Tim couldn't help the small flip his stomach did. The sleek black parts, the smell of new metal, the exposed wires that needed welding… this was what he lived for.

"Well lend me a hand, Lazy," Dick said, moving over, "I called you over here to help me with this thing."

Tim didn't hesitate before diving in. He took the part out of Dick's hand and set to work getting the hardware set up. Dick just shook his head, beginning to attach the propellers to it's base.

An hour passed. Maybe two. Maybe only a half hour. It didn't matter to Tim, because for that silent length of time, he found himself lost to his work. Lost in wires and circuitry. To coding and programming. But it felt like a fleeting blessing. A fading paradise. The scattered and fractured thoughts from the morning were sneaking back into his mind no matter how hard he tried to push them away, and it felt surreal.

He did not know why he thought he'd be safe with Dick. Dick could not protect him from his own thoughts. Dick could fight Junior and save him. He was alone. On his own. Fighting his own demons with no aide and… and… and that was wrong. That wasn't how a team worked...

Even if Tim did not feel apart of the family, there was no mistaking that he was apart of the team. And teammates helped each other. Why… why did he fight this alone? Why didn't he speak up and ask for help…? Because Junior said they didn't care? Because Junior suggested it was a bad idea? Why listen to Junior, when he was the enemy? When he clearly didn't have Tim's best interest in mind? Why-

"You know you can tell me anything, right?" Dick said suddenly, his voice too quiet for anyone besides the two of them to hear.

Why did Dick always read his mind?

"Right?" he repeated, when Tim stayed silent.

"I know," Tim told him, quietly.

"We've always been like that," Dick said, "You and me."

"I know."

"Remember when I accidentally let Man-Bat out of jail, and I woke you up, and we chased that thing around all night? We make a good team, me and you."

"I know…"

"Tim, you're always the first person I run to," Dick mused, "I get myself into trouble pretty often, but you're always there to help me get out of it."

"I know."

"I _know_ you _know,_ " Dick snapped, before sighing, "I just… I just need you to _feel_ that. Don't just _know_ it, Tim. Believe it, it's true. I know you understand me, and that you understand my words on every level that there possibly is to understand them on, because you're smart. But sometimes I don't know if you really get what's going on around you. I don't know that you… that you care enough to get invested. You're emotionally constipated."

Tim had a feeling the phrase 'I know' would upset Dick more.

"You don't want to talk about it," Dick went on, "But you haven't been the same since we got you back from the Joker. You changed, and I'm not sure why or even how, exactly. I know you don't remember-"

"I do remember," Tim said, before mentally slapping himself.

He hadn't meant to tell… But then, why not? _Shouldn't_ he tell Dick about what he knew? Or even what he _thought_ he knew?

"You remember?" Dick asked, in shock, "But I thought-"

"I only remember some," Tim clarified, "Images. Sounds. Feelings. Nothing cohesive. I think my nightmare last night… shook the memory up."

"You dreamt about it?" Dick asked quietly, putting the drone down and turning to him, "What about the dream made you remember?"

Dick was a master of people. His simple questions could make a person remember more than even _they'd_ thought they knew. His soft tone and quiet voice made even the most traumatized witnesses and victims confide in him their hardest secrets.

Tim had seen Dick use that tone a million times, but he'd never imagined the tone directed at him.

Tim shrugged at Dick. They were teammates. They were brothers, but, he did not know what confessing everything to Dick would lead too. Junior did not particularly like Tim sharing secrets.

" _Bingo, Timmy. I like to think me and you have a bond, you know. It's against bond code to talk badly about each other._ _ **Especially**_ _to cops."_

Tim shook his head. Yes, _that_ was why he always hesitated to speak up. He'd forgotten, Junior was crazy. And crazy people were not to be trusted.

"Tim?" Dick asked, turning Tim around and making them face each other, "Tim you can trust me."

Dick knew Tim knew more than he said he did, and Tim blamed his scattered memory and thoughts. He couldn't think through his actions like he normally could. He couldn't think ahead and plan and prepare, and the crumbling results around him were testimony to that. Sometimes he gave too much away and pissed off Junior, sometimes he didn't give enough away and worried Dick.

This was one of those times when both scenarios were happening.

"Tim, it's important that you explain to me what you know," Dick said, looking over Tim's shoulder to look briefly at Bruce, "Something is _wrong,_ Tim, I _know_ it is. But I can't help you if you don't help me."

"I _want_ to help you, Dick…"

" _Don't start acting like me_ _ **now**_ _, Tim-bo. You mine as well throw him a bone. Tease him with something horrible to keep him up at night. That's fun, right?"_

"Then give me something, Tim." Dick said, "What do you remember? Give me a sound. A voice. A joke. What did you feel? What did you think?"

Tim opened the small canister of dehydrated compost, which served as fuel, and poured it into the fuel tank of the drone. It had solar charging abilities, but would not be out during the day so the environmentally friendly alternate fuel would be useful. The drone was almost finished now, and it sat on the table, shiny and sleek and beautiful. But without the motherboard that Tim had yet install, the drone was useless. Beautiful, but useless.

The exterior of even the most expensive and beautifully crafted equipment could hide broken and ineffective insides.

That was how Tim felt. Like a weakly smiling shell hiding the shattered remains of a once whole human inside.

"Tim…" Dick insisted, and Tim sighed.

"I don't know..." Tim began slowly, pausing in his work and staring at his hands absentmindedly, "There was… pain. I thought I was dying. Everyday, all day, I felt like I was dying."

Tim could not see with his mind's eye or remember the room he'd been in. Or the smell. Or even if there had been darkness or blinding light. But he remembered the thoughts. The pain. The feelings of remorse, and anguish, and confusion. Drowning. The inability to breathe.

Dick said he was emotionally constipated. But maybe it was because he'd had and felt and _lived through_ every emotion he could ever possibly possess back when he'd been with the Joker. He'd given more feeling and more emotion than he'd had and now, he was left with nothing.

He hadn't wished to die. He hadn't thought to die.

"I _wanted_ to die." Tim said, his voice bitter with remembrance, "I _begged_ him to just kill me. Everything would be different if he had..."

"How do you mea-"

"Dinner!" Alfred called, "We'll stop here for now, and go up for some pizza. I think we've earned an easy night, don't you?"

Pizza was such a rarity that Damian typically lost his mind when just the word was mentioned. He may have been raised by assassins, but he was still a child, and children loved pizza.

"Grayson, Drake," the boy snapped, grabbing Jason by his jacket and pulling him to the stairs, "Pennyworth said 'now', so come on."

Bruce thought Damian's love of pizza was amusing, and followed behind the boy, throwing pizza toppings he knew Damian would disapprove of. Jason like sausage and bacon/chicken on his pizza. Dick liked anchovies and olives. Bruce liked what Dick liked and Alfred liked spinach. Tim, himself, liked Hawaiian pizza. Damian accepted pepperoni and nothing else.

Relieved at the sudden change in atmosphere and subject, Tim put a cover over the drone to protect it from dust and bat droppings (that _did_ on occasion fall and hit someone), and turned to follow the others.

"Let them go," Dick said, grabbing Tim's arm, "Finish talking with me first."

" _Yeah, let's finish talking to Dick. When the others are all upstairs, we'll tell him all about how screwdrivers can stop hearts."_

The array of tools spread out on the table suddenly looked threatening and obvious and dangerous. Tim couldn't beat Dick. He knew that. But could Junior?

It was that thought that made him snatch his arm back from Dick.

"What else is there to say?" Tim asked him, looking at Bruce's retreating shadow still climbing the stairs, "I told you, I don't remember much."

"You said you wanted to die," Dick spoke, his voice taking on the monotone one it always did when he tried not to let things affect him, "Why? What hurt to the point of wanting that?"

"I don't remember," Tim said, backing up.

Alfred was last up the stairs, and he was already climbing through the clock.

"Tim, it's me," Dick tried, "We were doing good just now, let's keep that up. Think hard, what hurt? Where? Was it a throbbing kind of pain, or numbing? What caused the pain?"

"I don't know, Dick." Tim said, backing out of Dick's reach, "But I'm hungry."

Tim made a run for it up the stairs and stopped only when he reached the top. Dick hadn't moved or made to chase him, but he was watching on from beside the table, his eyebrows knitted and his shoulders tense, like they were when he lost a fight.

Tim turned away, going through the clock and into the darkened hallway. He could hear Jason and Bruce telling Alfred where to order the pizza from, and he knew Dick would be up to interject his own opinion.

But Tim turned on his heels and went the opposite way. He went up to his room where he could be alone.

* * *

Folding and unfolding and folding again, Tim rearranged his closet. It had already been the pinnacle of neatness, but now, for some reason, it just wasn't neat enough _._ His jeans hadn't previously been the exact same size, and his shirts hadn't been quite flat enough.

Tim was setting those matters straight. Armed with a measuring tape, he could now make sure every item of clothing was the same diameter, width, and height. That done, he went into his bathroom to fix his medicine cabinet.

He couldn't help but pull open the glass shower door in the bathroom. He looked inside quickly, before closing the door back and going to his medicine cabinet.

Though Junior had been very present a few hours ago, Tim could not find him now. Not in the dark corners, like he usually was. Not sitting or lying across the bed. Not following him around silently. The smiling illusion had hardly left Tim's sight since he first showed up, but now he was missing.

It put Tim on edge. Made him jumpy. Paranoid. Where and when would Junior pop up? Was he angry at Tim? Was he still around without Tim, causing problems and mayhem elsewhere? Was he gone for good? Or could this all be just another illusioned scenario that he was living through with no knowledge that it wasn't real?

Tim grabbed the edge of the sink quickly with shaky hands. Vertigo was back.

He groaned, staring at the cool white porcelain beneath his hands. There was dried toothpaste there, and it bothered him. But not more than the spinning room.

The late night runs, the lack of sleep, not eating. It was starting to take it's toll on him. If he felt any weaker, he'd be unconscious. He tried to focus on his breathing, but every breath burned in his lungs. It felt like he was breathing fire.

"Calm down, Tim." he whispered to himself, "It's just another panic attack. You've got to relax."

Tim had had many panic attacks in his life, but this one was unlike any other he'd ever had. In fact, he didn't truly believe this to be a panic attack. But giving it a label made him believe there was a reason, and reasons had explanations, and explanations had answers and formulas.

 _That_ was something Tim could understand. Numbers. Formulas. That stuff made sense to him. It made his situation seem not so intense. Not so scary. Not so unusual.

Tim's legs buckled, and before he could comprehend the situation fully, he found himself on the floor. His head lolled back and forth slowly on the white bathroom tiles. He gasped in a painful breath of air, his right hand going to his chest as he tried to suck in oxygen. But it was like trying to breathe underwater. It hurt, and it burned, and his head hurt, and the world still spun, and he was drowning.

"You're… you're overreacting…" he gasped to himself, "You've just got to calm down."

He closed his eyes tightly, tensing and relaxing his toes, forcing his body to slow down. It was always mind over matter to him. Emotions. Pain. Life. Just mind over matter. If he could get his brain on board, his body would follow suite.

That made sense.

* * *

Someone was banging on the door.

Hard.

Loud.

Obnoxious.

Tim groaned, his hand going to his head as he blinked slowly, opening his eyes. He tried a few times to sit up unsuccessfully. His body felt heavy, his muscles were tense and almost unresponsive.

The bathroom was dark, and Tim had no idea what time it was, whether he'd passed out or just fell asleep, or who was knocking on the door with such intensity.

"Give me a sec," Tim called out, putting every effort into making his voice sound firm and strong.

But he couldn't even fool Damian with that attempt, so he tried to quicken his pace in getting up. He rolled onto his stomach slowly and managed to get to his elbows. In the darkness, he didn't feel so dizzy. At least he didn't think so. But he fell over like a drunk the moment he tried to get to his knees.

"Yo, Replacement," Jason yelled, "Why's the light out? What're you doing in there?"

 _Nothing. Nothing. Just trying to breathe._

Grabbing hold of the sink, Tim shakily pulled himself to his knees, and finally to his feet. He reached and flicked the light on, putting a hand up to cover cover his eyes when the light burned them.

"Replacement?" Jason called again, banging on the door.

Tim took a deep, painful, breath, looking around and trying to get his bearings. On the floor, where his head had lain, was a puddle of blood.

Looking up at himself in the mirror, he noticed his intense nosebleed for the first time. The blood had run across the side of his face and into the floor, so his clothes hadn't been stained, but the sink was quickly taking on the blood color as it continued to drip from his nose.

"I'm coming in…" Jason said, and suddenly, Tim found his voice.

"No," he said firmly, "I'm fine. I'll be out in a minute."

"A second, a minute," Jason said, "You've been missing all day. What've you been doing?"

All day? Had Tim been on the bathroom floor since the night before? Last he remembered… Dick and he had been working on… something. Something from Luscious Tim remembered screwing a screw into something shiny and black, and Dick had been there, and so had Junior. but Tim didn't not remember anything after that, but it only bothered him slightly. What was one more missing memory? Right now, he had Jason to worry about.

Tim ran the water on full, grabbing his rag and trying to wash the dried and fresh blood from his face quickly. Luckily his nose bleed was slowing. Pinching his nose and holding his head back should have it under control soon enough.

The door rattled and it made Tim jump. If Jason was going to pick the lock, he'd of done it silently. No, Jason just rattled the door to let Tim know he wasn't playing, and that in a minute, he'd pick the lock and come in anyway.

Tim was still scrubbing his face as he grabbed his towel off the rack and threw it over the puddle of blood on the floor. He pulled his spare towel, wrapped his bloody rag in it and stuffed it in the sink, hiding the rest of the evidence. He'd clean it up when Jason _wasn't_ badgering him right outside.

Using the wall for support, Tim made his way to the door. He made sure he turned out the bathroom light before he opened it.

Jason was leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded. He'd clearly been assigned to find Tim, probably for dinner, but now it seemed like he didn't plan on leaving anytime soon. Instead, he stared at Tim silently, his eyes squinted.

"I'm out," Tim said, closing his bathroom door and carefully walking around Jason and towards his bed, "You can leave now."

Jason said nothing, looking at the bathroom door Tim had just closed, and then back at Tim.

Tim swallowed as he sat on the edge of his bed slowly. He felt horrible. He felt weak and tired and dizzy and cold. Dick would pick up on that right away, and it would be all he concerned himself with. And that would be fine, because it took the attention off of any of Tim's other suspicions.

Jason was not like that. He was less in tune with Tim and more likely to notice Tim's behavior rather than his health.

Wordlessly, Jason pushed himself off the wall, opened the bathroom door and went in.

"Jason-" Tim tried, standing up too quickly and falling to his hands and knees.

Jason was only in the bathroom for a second before he marched out holding the bloody towel Tim had shoved in the sink. The bloody rag that had been folded in it fell out, soaked in water and blood and _sploshed_ on the carpet staining it immediately. It was all so much bloodier than he remembered seeing it, and to Jason, Tim was pretty sure this looked pretty bad. He could do nothing but stare speechless at the older man.

"What is this?" Jason asked, irrationally calm, storming up to him.

Tim winced as Jason grabbed him by his forearm and heaved him up onto his feet.

A familiar chuckle came from behind Jason, and Tim noticed Junior in the corner for the first time. The illusion shrugged his shoulders, as if the situation was out of his control, but entertaining all the same. Tim jumped a bit in surprise at seeing the missing hallucination.

Jason turned around to see what Tim had reacted to. Upon seeing nothing, he looked back at Tim with squinted eyes.

"Jason!"

Tim and Jason looked up to see Dick march in from the hallway.

Jason rolled his eyes, dropping Tim onto Dick when the eldest got close enough.

"What's going on?" Dick demanded, and Jason shook the bloody towel at Dick.

"Ask him."

Dick let Tim use him for support as he sat back on the bed. Just as he suspected, Dick was more concerned about Tim than he was about the bloody towel. He pulled Tim's blanket up over Tim's shoulders and brushed his hair out of his face absentmindedly, then felt for a fever.

"His bathroom looks like a crime scene." Jason said, "There's blood everywhere."

"Tim?" Dick asked, "What happened?"

"It was just a nosebleed." Tim confessed, "I'm fine. _He's_ overreacting."

"I am?" Jason asked, turning on his heels and going into the bathroom.

Dick stood up slowly, staring after Jason. Then he looked down at Tim. Dick seemed confused. Upset. Definitely worried.

Tim ducked his head. He was failing so hard at keeping the boy happy. At hiding all the things wrong with him. At hiding his emotions.

"Come 'ere, Dick." Jason called, and Dick went without hesitation.

Tim bit his lip, not sure what Jason saw that warranted Dick's personal eyesight. Jason had only been in the bathroom for a second, what had he seen that required Dick's attention?

Dropping his blanket, Tim stood up slowly, and made his way back to his bathroom. Immediately, he knew something was wrong.

Jason had his hands on his hips, looking around slowly, but Dick was running his hands through his hair, like he'd seen some gruesome act right before his eyes.

Both boys looked to Tim at the same time, and Tim inched away from them. Even from outside the bathroom, Tim knew the bathroom seemed different. Aside from the tiny pool of blood on the floor and few stains in the sink from his nosebleed, nothing had been wrong with his bathroom.

But now, he could seen the mirror was shattered, glass littering the floor, holes were in the walls, the shower door was off it's hinges, blood was everywhere.

But he'd just _been_ in the bathroom, and it had been fine… When had _that_ happened?

" _Guess we_ _ **didn't**_ _clean up so well from our last little game._ " Junior said, and Tim jumped, hearing Junior right behind him.

"What do you keep jumping at?" Jason asked.

Dick rushed out the bathroom, kneeling in front of Tim and gripping both of Tim's arms hard.

"What did you do?" Dick asked, his voice borderline hysterical.

"Nothing." Tim said, shaking his head.

Dick shook his head, too, and suddenly, he was pulling Tim's shirt off of him. Jason was rummaging through Tim's medicine cabinet, and suddenly, Tim felt like a prisoner. This was _his_ room, yet, it was being invaded; _he_ was being invaded, like he were a prisoner. Like his words were no longer trusted. This was not Dick and Jason in his room anymore. This was Nightwing and Red Hood. Tim could tell by the no-nonsense, determined, unwavering attention and stern looks they wore.

"Dick-!" Tim exclaimed, his voice muffled by his shirt.

Dick said nothing. He pushed Tim hard on his shoulders, knocking him down easily, and stood up, pulling Tim's pants off of him.

"Dick, stop-" Tim protested, but Dick ignored him as he ran his fingers up and down Tim's arm.

Tim understood now. Dick was checking for signs of cutting. They thought he was hurting himself or abusing medicine, by the looks of how Jason went though his cabinet. Tim was smart enough to know how _not_ to overdose on anything. But with the knowledge he _did_ have, Tim could kind of understand why Jason and Dick were so shaken. There were countless ways Tim could think to hurt himself without major or visible damage being done.

"I'm not abusing," Tim defended, snatching his pants up and putting them back on, "So you can get out of my bathroom, Jason."

"Where'd all that blood come from then, Tim?" Dick asked, "It's yours, isn't it?"

" _Tell them how funny it all is. Tell them you passed out for a whole day."_

Tim said nothing. Of course it was his blood. He'd be in bigger trouble if it weren't. But if he said no, it wasn't his, either one of the older boys could take any sample they wanted and analyze and prove that it was. Lying about that was useless.

"You've lost weight," Dick said, holding Tim's arms up.

"Lost weight?" Jason asked in disbelief, "Kid looks like the poster child for anorexia. He's a skeleton."

Tim snatched his shirt up from the floor and put that back on, too.

" _They know, Tim. They know, they know, they knoooow we're insane."_

"Haven't you been eating?" Dick asked, standing up, "I feel like… like I've _seen_ you eating..."

"I haven't." Jason said, folding his arms, "He just cuts his food up every night."

Dick gave Jason a look, and Tim assumed it asked Jason why he'd never said anything.

All this time, Tim had been so worried about Dick and Alfred noticing. He'd been so worried about them finding out about him, and about their feelings. He'd never stopped and thought about how Damian and Jason felt. He'd never thought to try and hide much from them because frankly, he didn't think they'd care.

"Tim, what's going on with you?" Dick asked, sitting on the edge of the bed, "I know losing your dad is hard and life lately has… well, it's _sucked_. But you changed before that. What is it? We can help you, Timmy, with whatever you're going through."

" _Let me get rid of these, two. Their asking too many questions."_

"Stay away from them." Tim told him.

"Who're you talking to?" Jason snapped, grabbing Tim's arm roughly, and Tim shook his head frantically.

He hadn't meant to speak aloud. He was used to it just being Junior. He was used to being alone. Just that fast, he forgot Jason and Dick were present. His eyes were wide and he felt like a deer in the headlights.

Tim looked up to where Junior had been, but he was gone now, and immediately, Tim began sweating. What did his disappearances mean?

"Tim, look at us." Dick said, worriedly, "You're going through something right now-"

"I'm not." Tim denied, "I'm fine. I'm just tired, is all. I don't feel well."

"Bathrooms a bloody mess," Jason counted off, "You hide in this black hole all day. You're talking to no one."

" _Good, good. I think Jason's getting really close to the truth, don't you?"_

Tim whipped around behind him. He heard Junior's voice, but he couldn't see him.

"Timmy, calm down, it's alright." Dick said, pulling the blanket up over his shoulders, "There's no one here but us. We're alone."

" _Rude."_

"I'm getting Bruce." Jason said, spinning on his heels.

"No Jason, wait." Tim said, "Don't. I'm fine."

"You're _not_ fine, kid." Jason snapped, whipping around, "You're sitting there sweating, but under a blanket. Your hands are shaking, you're jumping at nothing, you've got towels of blood in the bathroom, and you've got to weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet. That's _not_ fine."

"Maybe if you just told Bruce about what's been going on…" Dick tried, but Tim couldn't help a laugh.

"He doesn't want to talk to me, Dick."

"He'll want to hear about this." Jason said.

" _Can I kill them both, now?"_

Tim sat up, his eyes wide.

"What Tim?" Dick asked, frantic, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Tim said, standing, "You guys need to go."

Jason scoffed, and Dick put his hands on his hips.

"We're not going anywhere." he said.

"I said set the table, master Timothy." Alfred repeated, and Tim blinked.

Then he blinked again. And again. And he stared at Alfred hard, the world sharpening into focus, but the scene around him was strange and unfamiliar.

He'd just been in his room. A second ago he'd stood by his bed. Talking with Dick and Jason. Panicking. Trying to convince them that he was fine, though he knew he wasn't. And now he was in the kitchen?

Hesitantly, he grabbed the stack of plates from the counter and walked down the hall to the empty dining room. He waited for the moment he'd blink and be back in his room, where he knew he ought to be.

He did not remember leaving his room. Or getting to the kitchen. Or changing into… jeans. And why didn't he have socks on? He always wore socks outside of his room.

Where was Dick and Jason? The last thing they'd told him was that they would not leave him.

" _Promises are just guidelines. They're meant to be broken."_

Junior sat in Tim's usual seat, balancing on the chairs hind legs with his arms stuck out at his sides.

"How did I get down here?" Tim whispered, setting the plates down, "What did you do?"

" _I just got your butt out of a bad situation, that's what. You're_ _ **welcome**_ _."_

"You shouldn't have done that," Tim said, looking over his shoulder while he folded napkins, "You can't just… you can't just _block_ me out like that. This is _my_ body. _I_ have the control."

" _That's a cute thought: you in control."_

So Junior had done this. Made him blackout to stop him from confessing too much to his older siblings.

He sighed. This wasn't good. It was possibly the beginning of the end. Junior could _literally_ control Tim, and Tim would be none the wiser. What would happen when he went to sleep? When he took naps? Would Junior have control then, too? This was bad on a whole new level.

" _Hey, look at all these knives here. We should grab a few extra."_

Tim grabbed the pile of knives from the middle of the table. There were a few extra knives after Tim had placed them and for some reason, they appealed to him.

" _What if someone breaks in? What if Jason loses his mind and tries to strangle you? A knife is a handy thing to have."_

All of that was improbable and unlikely, and if Jason did decide to attack him, Tim would not use a knife to subdue him. Still, he hesitated, his hands beginning to shake before he put the extra knives beneath the napkin at his seat. He didn't know why he did it, and truly, there was no reasonable explanation. But when it was done, he breathed out the breath he'd been holding.

 _Why_ was he hiding knives under his napkin? Why was the decision to do so, so hard? Maybe it didn't matter and this was just another thing he was over thinking. Maybe he was freaking himself out for no reason. Maybe…

Bruce came into the dining room, then, with Damian on his heels. And before long, everyone had gathered at the table.

Tim was relieved to see Dick and Jason, for once, glad Junior had not hurt them in some way. Dick seemed his usual self, humming excitedly to himself as he made his plate and one for Damian. Jason, on the other hand, was quiet. Which was not unusual, but, he stared hard at Tim, and that was uncommon.

Dick was easier to fool in this regard. That or he was hiding the worry he felt. He could hide his emotions well. Whatever Junior had said to make them believe he was alright did not sit well with Jason. Jason didn't trust anyone easily, and without question, he had his own doubts about whatever was said.

Tim had quietly been pushing food around his plate and pretending to eat. But though he had no appetite, he took a few bites when he felt Dick watching him closely. Despite the tense air Jason gave off, and the nonchalant one Dick was trying to push on everyone, Tim could almost pretend like he felt completely normal. Which was weird because he knew he oughtn't.

But then, he got that feeling, and it filled him with dread for more than the fact that this was a quiet, mostly uneventful moment. He bawled up his shaking hands under the table and curled his lips in. A laugh was pushing at his chest, and his stomach muscles clenched as he tried to contain it.

It felt like ages since his last laughing fit, but he knew the feeling unmistakably. It was like remembering a joke told ages ago, and laughing about it alone in the bathroom. It felt stupid. It felt unnatural. That uncontrollable, building, bubble of laughter began deep in his stomach, and there was no somber thought or amount of self control that could stop it. A slow smile grew on his face and he quickly grabbed his water and began drinking to hide it.

" _Y'know, sometimes I laugh for no reason, too."_

And then the water was gone, and he had nothing to occupy his mouth with. He bit his lip until it bled, staring down at his plate, but it did no good. It started with a small hiccup. And then a bigger one. And before he could stop it, he broke and his entire body was rid with hysterical laughing. His sides hurt, his stomach ached, his muscles clenched. He didn't laugh that hard for anything, and everyone knew it.

It was over before he could get up and escape to his room, so he sat there, trying to catch his breath with tears in his eyes as everyone stared at him.

" _They already know we're insane, Tim. Let's tell them nothing is funny. "_

"I… uh, thought of a joke." Tim said, suddenly shy as he looked around at all the eyes on him, "You guys probably wouldn't laugh, though…"

Dick barked out a nervous laugh, "You're so nerdy Tim. Always up in your own head."

"That's probably his problem." Jason said, waving his fork around as he chewed, "Kid's an airhead. Can't think straight if your heads full of air."

"I'm thinking fine, thanks." Tim said, cutting up his steak, though he knew he wouldn't eat it.

"An airhead couldn't fix the broken arithmetic operation that had you stumped last week." Dick interjected, his voice factual, instead of protective.

" _HA! Jason, HA!"_

"Any competent person can use a calculator," Jason said, rolling his eyes, and looking back at Tim, "You're not special, Replacement."

Gone was the concerned Jason that wanted answers. Gone was the man that cared so much about Tim's health. Gone was the man that knew Tim did not eat his meals. Back was the man who cared only for himself and saw Tim as unworthy to wear a mask. Now, Jason smirked, kicking Tim's shin under the table.

Jason knew everyone knew when he kicked someone. But usually, it was only Dick or Alfred to speak up about it. Bruce usually gave a warning glare. But this night, it seemed like Jason had gotten away with it.

" _You know, I don't think Jason likes us very much."_

Tim looked up to see Junior sitting in a chair beside Jason. Never mind where the chair came from, Junior had a plate, cup, and napkin set in front of him as if he were an expected guest. And though Tim knew no one but himself saw Junior, he couldn't help the cold sweat that now run down his back.

" _He needs an attitude check."_

"Shut up." Tim muttered, grabbing his cup.

Jason barked a laugh, leaning into the table, "I'm sorry, Replacement, what did you say?"

"Jason…" Alfred warned.

" _Wanna get Bruce's attention? I know a way…"_

"I just wanna hear what he said," Jason said, sarcastically nice, "I didn't hear him, that's all."

"Let it go, Jason." Bruce said sternly.

" _It'll be fuuunny..."_

"Go away…" Tim muttered, and Jason pushed his chair back in response.

"You wanna run that again?" Jason asked, "For clarity purposes. Stop muttering to yourself, coward."

Gone was any playfulness Jason had had before. Now, he was ready to fight, which was the last thing Tim wanted.

"Let me remind you why _I'm_ the most feared guy in the streets." Jason spit.

" _Let_ _ **me**_ _handle him."_

Not even Bruce anticipated Tim reacting the way he did. Not even _Tim_ anticipated the reaction he had. But faster than was typical for him, he'd thrown his knife across the table, aimed straight at Jason's neck. Jason caught it, of course, which Tim had expected.

It was why he'd also thrown one under the table. Jason lurched forward, grunting, and Tim knew he'd nailed him right in his side.

But something in Tim drove him forward madly, and for some reason, that already cruel act wasn't enough, and he launched himself across the table with practiced ease and perfected grace.

Midair, he grabbed the knife by Jason's plate and before Bruce was able to pull him off and get him in a hold, he'd somehow managed to get two more stabs into Jason's stomach.

He was acutely aware of Alfred running off to prepare the medical bay. He was acutely aware of Dick's screaming (at Tim, for Jason's sake, and at Bruce, for Tim's). But oddly enough, it was Damian that caught Tim's full attention. He'd stood and stepped back from the table, watching on in curious silence, but never quite looking ready to engage.

Someone was stabbed in front of him three times, and his face hadn't changed from an hour ago.

That was impressive to Tim, but it angered him all the same. He'd of loved for one of those stabs to have gone in Damian's skull…

Like he was shocked or electrocuted, Tim jerked involuntarily. He gasped, suddenly breathless and struggling to breathe, as the realization of what he'd just done descended on him. That dark and violent thought he'd had of Damian had shocked him back to reality.

He'd stabbed Jason. _He'd_ _ **stabbed**_ _Jason!_

He'd stabbed Jason… but he hadn't meant to. Not honestly. There were a million times he'd _wanted_ to stab Jason, but it was never something he'd ever planned to actually do. Like putting a firecracker in the microwave, or ripping his mask off in front of his old high school - it was something he'd _like_ to do, but knew he'd never.

Bruce let him go after a moment, and Tim fell to the floor, suddenly too weak to stand on his own. Bruce quickly knelt beside Dick who was putting pressure on a cursing Jason's wounds. They made a quick plan to get him down to the cave, and in moments, Tim was left alone in the dining room. Lit candles and half eaten food his only company.

He curled himself up into a ball and simply stared at the pattern in the hardwood floor. But as he looked at the floor, he began to realize he couldn't _find_ a pattern. The floor was made from real wood, and real wood did not repeat itself.

It made Tim hate trees.

" _I can't believe you did that."_ Junior laughed, sitting down next to him, " _Bruce totally noticed you. He even_ _ **touched**_ _you! Progress or what?"_

No, Tim hadn't done that. Junior had _made_ him do it. Somehow, he had. Just like destroying his bathroom, or locking him in the gala closet, or making him blackout and wake-up somewhere else; it all just happened too fast. Without his knowledge. Somehow, Junior had taken over him. It was the only explanation, because he would _never_ stab Jason.

That just wasn't him.

* * *

Tune in next time, guys.

Same Bat-time, same bat-channel.

Cheers!


	12. I See You in Me

Here's a shorty to hold you guys over.

Recap: Tim's just stabbed Jason during dinner. Everyone has rushed Jason down to the cave, leaving Tim behind to reflect on the aftermath.

We begin from there.

* * *

"I am nineteen years old," Tim muttered. "I live at Wayne Manor. I have black hair and blue eyes. I like to be alone…"

" _We_ _ **deserve**_ _to be alone…"_

Tim shook his head. Things always became complicated when opinions were brought in, so he went back to recited facts about himself. For now, it served to calm his nerves.

No one had come up from the cave, and it was going on 3 and a half hours. Even while Jason had been carried away, he'd been cursing and threatening Tim, which was how Tim knew Jason would be alright. Still, Tim couldn't believe he'd stabbed him. It was why he was still on the floor, curled up in a ball.

He labeled it as shock.

Soon enough, though, Dick returned. He was a bit bloody, but he'd clearly changed into new clothes in the cave. He didn't seem shocked or surprised that Tim was on the floor. He just sat beside him in silence for a moment before sighing deeply.

"Jason's stable." Dick said quietly, "He's been stable for about an hour, but we wanted to keep an eye on him to be sure. After getting shot that while ago, Bruce was concerned with blood loss."

Tim nodded. That had been his fault, too. His first big mistake.

"Timmy… why would you do that?" Dick asked, "I need to know what was going through your head."

Immediately, a million excuses ran through Tim's mind.

Jason was evil to him. He abused him daily. He mocked him. Hit him. Pushed him down stairs. Called him names. Constantly doubted his worth. Tainted him. There was no one in the house more violent out of costume than Jason, and Jason had no problem reminding Tim of this. The one time Tim stands up to the man, and suddenly the world is on his back about it.

Jason was a villain. He was a bad guy. He did all the things Bane would do, were he present. All the things Clayface and Riddler and Penguin would do.

But... Jason had never _stabbed_ him.

" _No, but he sat on his butt like everyone else when the Joker did… whatever he did, to us."_

"What do _you_ care?" Tim snapped at the eldest boy, sitting up, "You don't care about me or how I feel."

"' _Bout time you told the truth."_

Dick furrowed his eyebrows, "You _know_ that isn't true. Tim, you know I love you."

" _So Jason gets stabbed and everyone runs to his aid. But you get kidnapped, and no one moves for a month? Sounds like love to me, too."_

"Then why do you always stand up for _them_?" Tim asked, looking Dick in his eyes, "Why do you always take _their_ side, and run to _their_ rescue, and save _them_ when _they_ need you?"

"I will _always_ be there when you need me," Dick said, his voice full of disbelief, as if he couldn't believe he needed to even say this, "And you know that. I've _never_ let you down."

"Of course you'd love to _think_ that," Tim said, bitterly, "You're _Dick_. You're _perfect_. Why _shouldn't_ you feel like you're good enough? You are, aren't you? You and everyone else in this house, but me. You don't even need each other to be great. You're all good all on your own."

There was painful truth behind that. Kidnapping may not have been a new tactic, but being gone for three weeks was definitely a record for the men in the house. No one had held Dick for a week. No one had Jason for a week. No one could even catch Damian. Few people believed the boy even existed.

" I guess I shouldn't have needed your help from the start," Tim said, "If I were as good as you, it wouldn't have taken so long to escape. I expected too much from you, thinking you'd come for me. I kid myself, believing that lie."

"I don't believe _you_ believe that," Dick said, getting to his knees, "I will _always_ be by my family's side when they need me."

"Then where were you when _I_ needed you?!" Tim yelled, pointing at himself, "You _left_ me for nearly a _month_ with a _psycho_! You left me, Dick. And you _forgot_ me. And no one came to save me."

"Timmy, we tried-"

"Well, it wasn't good enough. _I_ had to save me. _I_ had to get _myself_ out of there, because no one here was going to do it."

" _Preach!"_

"Tim, you can't-"

"You don't love me." Tim said, his voice hateful and harrowing, suddenly, "No one does."

" _Aww, I love you, Tim-bo."_

Dick grabbed his arm lightly, and Tim recognized the touch immediately. It was that desperate, 'I need physical contact', needy touch that always preceded one of Dick's tight and lengthy infamous hugs.

Tim could easily see himself falling into his brothers waiting arms. He could see himself breaking down into tears and just letting Dick hold him. It was what he _wanted_ to do. It was what Dick _expected_ him to do. It would be easy to blame his recent behaviour on some kind of post traumatic stress from his kidnapping. It would be easy to believe that all of that trauma climaxed to his stabbing Jason.

But Tim couldn't do that. Not when he finally saw the truth behind Dick's behaviour.

" _You do see what he's doing right? You see it, don't you?"_

Dick tried to pull him in for the hug, but Tim pulled out of his grasp, a bright, but disbelieving smile on his face. This was such a Dick move. Try to right all the wrongs in the world with a single hug. Try and smooth things over with that comforting smile. Claim he loved Tim in that soothing voice. Hold him tight like Tim actually mattered to him.

He'd been an idiot to believe thatcdicka truly cared about him.

"No, Dick." he said, his voice light with sudden insight and knowledge, "Not everything can be fixed with a hug. Not _everyone_ falls for your smile or for your good guy act. _I_ know better. _I_ know you, and I'm not gonna fall for your tricks."

" _Oh my God, you_ _ **do**_ _see it, don't you?!"_

"...my tricks?"

" _Tell him!"_

"You were never born to be an acrobat," Tim said, laughing, "You were born to be an actor. From the second we met you were acting. Acting good for Bruce. Tough for Jason. Brave for Damian. Popular, cheerful. You're a _phony._ Just like Bruce _._ But you won't fool me again. Not any more. I won't let you trick me. I know what you're up to. I've seen your joke for what it really is."

" _That's one joke I don't wanna hear the punchline too…"_

"Timmy, what on earth are you-"

"A joke!" Tim said, throwing his hands up as if this really were the punchline to a joke, "A big joke, is what it is. You make me think we're friends. You make me think we're _brothers_. And that we're family, and that I _matter_ to you. But then _**wham**_! The punchline hits, and you pull the rug from under my feet."

" _Ice, ice, baby. That's cold."_

"Timmy…"

"You say you looked for me," Tim said, shaking his head, "You say you all searched and searched right up until the end, but you can't fool me. I won't let you. Not anymore."

"Tim-"

"I wanted to _die_!" Tim screamed, his voice hard and hysterical, "I wished I was _dead,_ and not the thought of you or anyone else eased that pain. I'd of _killed myself_ if I could have. Do you _get_ that? I wouldn't be standing here, right now, if i'd had the choice. I would be _dead_. And all the while, you all were high-fiving each and bonding over pizza, probably."

" _Alright stop. Collaborate and listen…"_

"Tim, you're not making any sense..." Dick said, and suddenly, Dick had his hand on Tim's shoulder.

"Ice is back with my brand new invention." Tim couldn't help but finish, laughing suddenly at how random he must of sounded.

Dick applied a little pressure to a certain pressure point and Tim's world faded to black instantly.

* * *

Tim gasped, sitting straight up in bed.

His room was dark and the closed curtains made it pitch black. The sound of rain pelted the house outside, and his window whistled quietly, wind blowing through the tiny gap that had been left open. Tim was panting, unable to catch his breath as he swung his legs out of bed and turned on the lamp on his side table.

Just as he suspected, the bloody towel was still on the floor where Jason had left it.

That hadn't been a dream…

But where was Dick? Where was Jason? Last he remembered, they'd been pretty firm about not leaving him alone. They'd searched him and his bathroom. They'd threatened to call Bruce. They'd thought something was wrong with him.

Yet, Tim was waking up from bed? What had happened between now and then? Had Junior… taken over? The last time Junior handled things, Jason had been stabbed. More than once.

Wait…

Wait…

Wait… _Jason had been stabbed?!_

Right, Tim had stabbed him. He'd forgotten.

Like a flood, the memory of dinner hit him and he ran his fingers through his hair. His conversation with Dick hadn't gone very smoothly. Dick had knocked him out and rightfully so. He'd been hysterical. Out of control. Completely delirious. Claiming Dick neglected him was like claiming Nightwing didn't do his best to save every life he could. And anyone with eyes could see that wasn't true.

What he'd said to Dick hadn't truly been how he felt about Dick. Or anyone else. Three weeks _was_ a long time to be kidnapped, especially by someone like the Joker. But Tim wasn't new. He knew how the world of vigilance worked. He knew Batman's systems and methods for finding missing people, and typically, they worked. This had just been one of those times where it didn't.

And Tim understood that. He accepted it. He had no choice but to accept it, or it would drive him crazy. It just seemed so hard to wrap his head around the fact that no one had found him in such a lengthy period of time. But wasn't this all part of the job. Wasn't it in the contract? In the small print?

Kidnapping was not a new tactic.

What had driven that emotional breakdown? Why did he try so hard to defend a point of view he did not claim?

Junior. The answer seemed to always be: Junior. But why would Junior make him bring up a topic that made him flip his lid? That made him so angry and confused? Everytime Junior made him speak, it was about a topic that would drive Tim absolutely _crazy_ if he didn't bury it and try to move on.

That was all Tim wanted: just to move on. Forget the bad stuff and strive to create new and better thoughts and memories. Dwelling on the past always upset him.

But… maybe that was what Junior wanted. To bring up the past. To bring up bad memories. To bring up painful thoughts and ideas his over analyzing mind conjured up on it's own. It definitely made Tim act out of character. It made him feel out of control, which Tim was sure Junior loved. It made him…

It made him…

Made him…

Where had that train of thought been going? He'd been on to something… Following an idea… a thought, that made sense. That _finally_ made since. For one second, he'd been thinking clearly. But now… now, he could not think. He could not remember his thoughts from seconds ago. His thoughts about… about _something_ , and it was _frustrating._

Tim got out of bed slowly. He had to find Dick. That was good goal to have. Maybe he'd been thinking about Dick before his stupid brain fart. With Dick, he could set matters straight about the conversation they'd had. Claim he was in shock about stabbing Jason, and that's why he'd reacted that way to Dick trying to talk to him. And he'd claim he'd had a fever and wasn't feeling well when he stabbed Jason, so his thinking and actions were not clear.

Dick might believe that.

But the blackouts had Tim concerned. The blackouts increasingly meant something bad happened. No more did Tim just blackout and wake-up back up to find he'd simply gone for a walk. No more did blacking out simply mean something was moved. Someone got hurt, now, or something was said that actually mattered. Tim had to make sure he hadn't hurt Dick during his recent blackout. Dick may have knocked Tim out but he hadn't knocked out Junior, and that was concerning. Junior had threatened to kill Dick several times, after all. In fact, Jason was still probably in danger as well.

Junior had a particular dislike of the elder brothers. Jason especially.

At this hour, the hallways were silent and scarcely lit. The few windows high on the wall let in minimum light from the night, but at the moment, it was raining steadily. Tim loved the rain, but he wished the moon were out that night, shedding light in the dark house.

A sound caught Tim's ear suddenly and he made his way towards the stairs. He'd been on his way to Dick's room, but now he tiptoed down the stairs and towards the kitchen where he could see the light was on.

He hoped Dick was there. Or even Jason. He needed to know they were both okay. That he hadn't messed up again or hurt two people that he actually cared about seriously. There would be no going back if he killed one of them.

But reaching the kitchen, Tim saw Damian was sitting on the counter, drinking a glass of water. Insomnia often got to the boy, as it did Tim. It was one thing they had in common. Typically, on a night off, Bruce and Jason and Dick practically flew to their beds. Sleep was a precious thing when you were up 24/7 most of the time. Living on naps was not normal, after all. Tim somehow eluded the calling to basically die for eight or nine hours, only sleeping when his body could take no more. Being a hero took so much out of you, that sleep was sometimes forced on you by your own body.

It wasn't who Tim had wanted to see, but Tim was relieved that it was Damian and not Junior present. He knew now that the illusion was certainly not to be trusted, and definitely didn't have any mutual ambitions with Tim.

"Have you seen Dick or Jason?" Tim asked quietly, getting himself a glass of water to calm his nerves.

He was pushing back the onset of a panic attack. He knew this one had no merit, no _real_ reason or cause. It was just there, poking at the back of his brain, threatening to either fade away or come crashing down in one swoop. It made Tim's breathing hitch and his hands begin that slow but steady unsteadiness that he always tried to hide.

Drinking something gave him something to focus on. No matter how small a distraction it seemed.

"Not since they went to bed," Damian said, hopping down off the counter.

Tim sighed. They'd went to bed. They weren't dead. He hadn't lashed out on Dick after he'd been knocked out.

Damian put his glass in the sink, and Tim was prepared to do the same, but he dropped the glass, mutely taking note of it shattering at his feet, when he glanced at his reflection in the microwave.

Damian whipped around to look at him, but Tim could only stare at his reflection.

Though he wore a faded grey t-shirt and gym shorts, his reflection showed him in a familiar, colorful costume. His face was slightly distorted in the reflection of the microwave, but he could still easily make out his pale skin, green hair, and blood red smile. His t shirt was suddenly a green button down. And though his arms were cool, his reflection showed he wore a purple jacket with a green flower pin on it.

His breath caught and a hand flew to his green hair as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. He turned his head left and right, watching his reflection mimic in time with him. He touched the red of his lips, following the sloppy line that created the smile, feeling his own smooth skin. Despite the dramatic transformation looking back at him, his eyes remained the same steel blue they'd always been. At the moment, they were wide with disbelief and horror. How could something as familiar as his eyes be attached to a face full of makeup? Be attached to an outfit so iconic and distressing?

Damian cleared his throat and Tim turned around to him. The younger boy had an eyebrow raised at him.

"What is wrong with-"

"Damian, how do I look?" Tim interrupted frantically, "I-I mean, what do I look? Who do I- _what_ do I...what do I look like?"

The desperation and shock in his voice clearly caught Damian off guard, and the boy took a step back, his face confused.

"A junkie going through withdrawal?"

"Damian, I'm _serious_." Tim begged.

"No uglier than usual, Drake." Damian slurred, shaking off his discomfort and yawning.

The insult took the boy back to a more familiar place, but Tim ran his hands through his hair, looking at the glass on the floor.

This was not happening to him. He couldn't be turning into Junior. He couldn't have allowed that to happen. He was Tim, and Tim always had his life together. He always had a plan. A backup plan. At least he seemed to, outwardly. Of all his brothers, he had that, at least. A set out line and path to follow, and a determination not to swerve or waver from it. How could he lose control like this?

He could control this...

"You look fine." Damian added, staring at Tim's breakdown uneasily, "Thin, perhaps, but… fine?"

Tim let out the breath he'd been holding. So Damian didn't see it. Obviously, he didn't see it. He'd of reacted if he could see it.

"I'm going to bed." Damian said, backing away slowly, before turning and running up the stairs.

Had Tim frightened him? Why had he been so awkward? Was Tim scary now? What on earth frightened _Damian,_ besides social interaction, maybe.

Tim ran a hand over his face. Maybe it was time he went to bed as well. Dick and Jason had gone to bed, and though Tim's reflection was concerning, he tried to force himself to relax. It was just Junior playing a prank on him. A cruel, cruel, prank, that's all.

As he climbed the stairs, he recounted pi. And he tried to push nightmarish thoughts out of his head.

* * *

Tim remembered clearly getting back into bed and lying down. He'd taken off his socks, pulled his blankets up to his shoulders, turned on his side, and closed his eyes. He'd thought of nothing but numbers. Nothing but formulas. And it made drifting into a dreamless void easy.

He _didn't_ remember waking back up or going back down to the kitchen. He _didn't_ remember grabbing a knife, either. Yet here he was, in the kitchen, holding the sharpest knife they owned. Furthermore, the knife sharpener was out and placed conveniently in front of him.

Rain beat at the many windows surrounding the kitchen and lightening flashed, further illuminating the dim and shadow laden kitchen twice. The shadows from the plants, vases, and furniture came into sharp clarity briefly, before falling back into darkness, suddenly. Thunder rolled into the house like a burglar, vibrating bones to it's frequency and purring so deep the floor boards and kitchen tiles felt it.

Tim's breath caught, and he dropped the knife, letting it clatter to the floor noisily, breaking the silence disturbingly. He gripped his hair, his heart racing in his chest, and he backed up until his back hit the wall. The glass from his shattered cup still lay beneath him, but he took no note of it.

 _Why did he have a knife?_ Wasn't he _done_ with knives? Was he subconsciously after Jason again? Had he been sleep walking? No, he was wide awake. He didn't even feel as if he'd slept at all, and having sleepwalked before, he knew coming out of it was like waking up from a deep sleep.

No, this had been another blackout.

This had been Junior.

"Control yourself." he whispered, "Control. Control. Control."

He couldn't let his body do anything he didn't want it to. Not anymore. After what happened to Jason, he'd subconsciously hoped he'd snapped himself out of whatever crazy mindset he'd fallen into. He hoped the shock of the situation might send him reeling back to reality. But that apparently wasn't the case, because here he was, doing something just as horrific.

"Control. Control. Control. _Control_."

Tim clutched his head, clenching his eyes shut. He couldn't let this control him. _He_ had to control _it. He_ was the dominant, not Junior. He had to stay aware. He had to stay vigilant. He had to conquer whatever was trying to conquer him.

* * *

Tim's body jerked and that familiar feeling of deja vu and of being shocked hit him suddenly.

Tim stood in a dark room and he felt the knife clutched in his hand. The ridges on the handle pressed back into his skin hard enough to leave marks. He didn't remember picking it back up. In fact, the last thing he remembered was being in the kitchen, though a blackout and Junior had been what had gotten him there. He'd been in the kitchen, and he'd been trying to calm himself down… and now he was somewhere else?

A loud snore made him jump. His eyes adjusted, slowly, and Tim took tentative steps towards the bed, only to see Dick spread out and asleep.

Tim looked down at the knife in his hand and his heart began beating wildly. In a panic, he fled Dick's room and returned to the kitchen. He'd of gone to his own room, but the kitchen was further. The further the better; should he blackout again, the bigger the distance, the more likely he was to snap out of it before he did something he'd regret.

In the dark, Tim slid against the dishwasher and onto the floor. The knife wasn't even sweaty in his hands. His grip had been firm, not a shake or shiver in sight. He'd gone to Dick's room with no fear. No hesitation.

He let the knife fall to the floor by his feet, allowing tears he'd let build up fall freely. Dick was asleep. Attacking him would have had a different outcome then attacking Jason. Jason had been awake, and Tim had known that at a dinner table full of heroes, he wouldn't be able kill Jason if he'd tried.

But sneaking up on Dick while he slept? Tim _could_ have _killed_ him. And up to his end, Dick would not seriously hurt Tim… even if it cost him his life.

The thought of coming out of a blackout to find he'd murdered Dick would have given him a heart attack. It would have broken him. He'd have gone crazy. Insane. Mental. Psycho. Was that the reaction Junior sought, though? Was Junior doing this to push him over the edge? Send him reeling into a downward spiral towards madness?

But then again, Tim didn't seem very far from that on his own.

He shook his head. He couldn't just march up to his room and go to bed now. His blackouts were out of control. They happened when he was awake as well as when he was asleep, now. Even if he went down to the cave and locked himself in something, what good would it do? The cave certainly had a plethora of equipment Tim could use to detain himself, but if Tim could get in it, Junior could get out of it. The challenge would probably only serve to excite Junior.

He could tell Dick, maybe. Explain that he was… what, crazy? Losing his mind? Blacking out?

Dick wouldn't believe it.

 _Hey Dick, guess what? A few moments ago, I came into your room with a knife. Weird, huh?_

After what happened to Jason, that sentence would get him sent off to Arkham. Bruce wouldn't hesitate. He'd be glad to get rid of Tim. Glad to get the one who always screwed up out the house. With Tim gone, maybe the bat-family would end up saving Gotham. In Tim's absence, maybe the city would take a turn for the better. What good was he doing for it?

The thought made his hot, frightened tears turn furious. He was frustrated. He was angry. He was… he was dangerous. He was _dangerous._

He'd stabbed Jason. He'd put the lives of hundreds at risk, and even lost a few lives, at the gala. He'd nearly…. he'd nearly _hurt_ Dick…

He may not have showed it very well, but Dick meant the world to Tim. Dick meant the world to pretty much anyone he met. He was weird, and probably Tim's polar opposite. But he was a genuinely good person, and that was far more than Tim was. The world couldn't lose Dick. It didn't have nearly enough people like him.

If anyone needed to go, it was Tim. There were plenty of people messed up in the brain in Gotham. Losing one crazy person would actually help the cause. It was a better option that hurting Dick. Tim would rather die than hurt Dick. He'd rather cut himself open and bleed to death with the knife that lay at his feet.

But that was an irrational thought. Of course he couldn't do that. So then, what _could_ he do? Who could he tell? Where could he turn to?

Tim turned around to look at his reflection in the dishwasher. His clown face was still present, though his blue eyes remained.

"Leave me alone," Tim said, gritting his teeth when his reflection frowned sarcastically.

Tim was not sure whether or not the reflection he saw was himself, or Junior. All along, he'd _known_ Junior had _looked_ like him. He'd known Junior shared his clothes, and his room, and his tendencies. Heck, sometimes, Junior shared Tim's point of view and opinion. But it was hard to come to terms with the fact that Junior might actually _be_ him _._

The person he was used to seeing in the mirror and his reflection was no longer himself. It was a clown, with a temper, and a love of all the wrong things. It was someone who liked to hurt people, and cause suffering, and punish others. That wasn't Tim, though. He wasn't like that. But it was hard to say that when the face he saw in his reflection was that of a psychopath, and not the calm, but stern face he was used to seeing.

" _Please_." he begged, his vigor draining, "Go away."

His clown reflection looked pathetic, mouthing the words in time with him. Had this all just been a show of power? Had Junior just been proving he had control? Was he just proving that Tim was now under his thumb? Before, he'd just been a figment of Tim's imagination. He'd been silent, unable to interact with the real world.

Now, he had leadway. He had some control. He a way to touch people, and hurt people, and be _real_. He had _Tim_. At his will, it seemed, he could take over, and Tim was not always privy to what Junior did or said. He could not stop him, nor could he remember.

That irritating smile pissed him off. His reflection was happy and smiling despite Tim's begging. Despite Tim's tears. Despite his desperation.

Despite everything, the two were now closer than ever.

"Stop smiling." Tim grit, "Nothing's funny."

His reflection rolled his eyes and Tim punched it. The dishwasher groaned loudly as it dented around his fist and water began gushing from somewhere beneath it.

Tim would not, _could not,_ let Junior win. He couldn't let Junior control him.

* * *

Keep the feedback coming, you guys! It motivates me!

Cheers!


	13. Clipped Wings

Pain was something Jason could handle. He'd been shot, stabbed, and beat more times than he could count. That didn't mean he welcomed it, though. He'd never been the kind of person to revel in his own pain. It didn't make him feel stronger, or more human, like it did some of the sick people he beat up.

No, if Jason could get his hands on some pain medicine, then not even hell could keep him from it.

Not that he'd tell anyone that, of course, which was why he was gritting his teeth and slowly making his way down the stairs and hallways to get some pain medicine from the kitchen. He _could_ ask for help. Alfred would be more than willing. Dick would literally take flight to get him his medicine (along with extra blankets, tea, cookies, and whatever else he could get his hands on if he thought it would help). Even Bruce would venture to get it for him.

But why let them see him weak when he could just suck it up and do it himself? A little voice in his head told him he was being unreasonable. But he shot that little voice mentally and pushed on. He made a mental note to give Tim a few bruises for the stab wounds.

He was not amused.

There was a huge relief when he reached the kitchen, but it was short lived. The moment he flicked on the lights, he knew his night would not be so uneventful.

Blood was smeared all over the floor and counters and walls. Water flooded the floor, tinted red from the blood, and staining the white tile beneath it and the hardwood floor that began where the kitchen ended.

It looked like a fight had happened…

Jason dragged his feet on the ground backwards until his socks came off (he hated wet socks), and trudged his way through the water and further into the kitchen.

He was not sure what he'd been expecting, but seeing Tim on his side, unconscious, his wrists still gushing small spurts of blood from having them cut so deep, was not even close to anything he might have imagined.

The water was clearly coming from the dented dishwasher Tim lay in front of, but the source of whatever had hurt Tim was less apparent. A knife lay not too far from him, and shards of glass lay across from him, both of which were red and bloodied. Yet, Jason still found it hard to believe that Tim had done this to himself.

Jason sloshed over to Tim, bending down and checking his pulse. Though his heart still beat strong, Jason felt irregular palpitations.

Jason stood and shook his head, confused. He knew that if Tim really wanted to kill himself, Tim would be dead already. No questions or doubts about it.

So why this? Why cut himself open on the floor in the kitchen where Alfred would see him first thing in the morning? Did he _want_ to give the old man a heart attack?

It was almost like he _wanted_ to be found like this: half bleeding, half dead. He was punishing himself. Bleeding out alone, in the dark, like he deserved it. He _wanted_ someone to save him, and yet, he didn't care if he wasn't.

Was this his cry for help, or was he so messed up in the brain that he just starting cutting himself blindly?

Jason grabbed his medicine from the cabinet, popped it in his mouth before he bent down, grabbing Tim by his arms carefully and grunting as he put him over his shoulder. He grit his teeth for a moment, squared his shoulders, steeled his nerves, pushed the pain away, and slowly made his way down the halls and up the stairs.

He could think of only one place to go and with one hand, he quietly pushed open Dick's door, locking it behind him.

Dick was snoring, one foot out the covers and hanging off the bed, his arm thrown over his face.

Accidentally not so gentle, Jason dropped Tim over his shoulders and onto Dick's legs. He shushed Dick when he began to protest, and flicked on his bedside lamp.

"Jesus, Jason." Dick groaned, running a hand over his face, "It's gotta be like, 3. It's my night off, and I'm tired."

Jason waited patiently for Dick to wonder about the weight on his legs. And when he did, Jason wouldn't deny that Dick's face was… memorable. The shade of white he turned matched his sheets, and that look of sheer horror _almost_ pulled a string in Jason's long hardened heart. Dick almost looked ready to vomit.

"He was in the kitchen," was all Jason said.

Dick shook his head, pushing away the panic, and pulled his legs from under Tim carefully. Then he jumped up and ran out the room in his underwear. He was back minutes later with a book bag over his shoulder. He locked his bedroom door before opening the bag and pulling out some medical supplies he'd brought up from the cave.

Dick was setting up on the floor, so Jason picked Tim up carefully and laid him on the floor in front of Dick.

The kid was soaked in blood and water, plastering his hair to his thin, pale face. And now Jason could see that Tim's wrists weren't the only things bleeding. Lines of blood were becoming more visible that ran all up his arms and down his legs.

"Damian's cleaning the kitchen up." Dick said quietly as he began cleaning the wounds, "... Jason… what _happened_?"

"Don't ask me," Jason said, rummaging through Dick's closet for clothes to change Tim into, "He was like that when I found him. All cut up on the floor like some kind of psycho."

Dick shushed him then, unable to handle this simple truth, but in all honesty, both boys' minds were reeling. They knew something was wrong with Tim. Anyone with eyes could see that. He was jumpy. Paranoid. Thin and pale. He spent all his time alone, and his ocd habits had gone from concerning to outright unhealthy. But neither had foreseen Tim doing _this_ to himself. And after he'd reassured them so convincingly that he _wasn't_ abusing himself.

Dick had had no idea just how bad Tim had been, but he vowed that from now on, he wouldn't let the boy out of his sight.

Jason pulled a t-shirt from Dick's closet and a pair of his gym shorts from his dresser.

"Where's your underwear?" he asked, and Dick pointed to the top drawer.

Jason had had all kinds of mental warnings and instincts going off about Tim. He'd happily ignored them, but at the moment, he allowed himself to regret that choice. He had grudges and grievances and enough bitterness towards Tim to last possibly forever, but he'd never wish what Tim was going through on him. He reminded himself, for the first time since meeting the kid, that Tim was just that. A kid. A kid who, like him, had the sole goal of doing good and helping others.

And no matter how 'normal' tragedy seemed to them, and no matter how 'normal' depression was, and injury was, and death was, and sickness was, they were _not '_ normal' situations. Every one of them had human reactions to the inhuman positions they found themselves in. Whatever had driven Tim to the point of... _this_ … was not something to take lightly.

The bedroom door rattled slightly before Damian picked his way into the room. He was upset, probably about having to clean the kitchen, Jason figured, but when he saw Tim, wet and bloody, stretched out on the floor as Dick stitched up a cut on his leg, he said nothing.

"Help me change him," Jason said to him, tossing the clothes on the floor.

Damian looked at Jason a moment, a protest possibly on the tip of his tongue, but he kept it in. Instead, he rolled his sleeves up and knelt on the other side of Tim.

How would they save this broken bird?

* * *

 **This chapter is short for a reason.**

 **I thought it was more dramatic this way.**

 **Anyway, go next door and read this chapter's big brother. It's much longer.**

 **Cheers!**


	14. Sewage Diving

_"Listen, kid, if I ever find you sprawled across the floor again, I'm leaving you. Stab wounds don't heal overnight, and considering you gave me mine, I wasn't in any hurry to throw you over my shoulder. You try a stunt like that again and Dick won't be able to piece you back together after I'm done with you."_

* * *

" _I don't know why Grayson has me in here talking to you. Heaven knows I have nothing to say to you. I am angry, though, if you care to know. Angry that at three in the morning, I had to get up to clean_ _ **your**_ _blood from the cracks in the tiles. Don't ever require that of me again because I assure you, you will be let down. You'll give Grayson a stroke with these dumb antics you're pulling. You can sit there and stare at nothing all you want, but I know you can hear me so… so don't do that again. I'm not cleaning up behind you anymore, Drake."_

* * *

" _You called me a liar, Tim. An actor. A freud. Why? Because I care? Because I'm the only one in this damn house that shows any positive emotion? I can't help the way I love my family. I'm just sorry you see it as an act. I'm not lying to you when I say that I'm scared for you. That I'm_ _ **terrified,**_ _actually. You may be a genius Tim, but that doesn't make me an idiot. I_ _ **know**_ _, you're not fine. I_ _ **know**_ _you've felt out of control, but I can't help you. Not if_ _ **you**_ _don't help_ _ **me**_ _, help_ _ **you**_ _. Let me in, dammit, and let's try and fix whatever it is that's got you so messed up._

 _I honest to goodness love you with all of my heart. You are the truest brother I could ever hope to have, and I would give my life for you in less than a heartbeat. You're a_ _ **good**_ _person, Timmy. And you have saved_ _ **thousands**_ _of lives. You make mistakes, but we_ _ **all**_ _do. Even Bruce. I know you guys aren't on good terms right now, but he loves you just as much as I do. And Jason loved you enough carry you up to my room even though he was hurt. And Damian loved you enough to clean up the kitchen at three o'clock in the morning. We_ _ **all**_ _love you, Timmy. So you're gonna have to get better so that our family can function again, because without you… we're broken."_

* * *

Tim closed his eyes. It was so much easier to ignore voices and pretend to be asleep. It was the one thing Junior let him do without any backtalk or threats or jokes. It was easier to give in to chaos and mayhem than to stay in a world where he was constantly afraid of his own actions and depressed at the lack of control he felt he had. It made him angry, and tired. He was exhausted from fighting with himself. If Junior's plan to be in control consisted of wearing Tim out, then he was doing a bang up job because Tim didn't even feel like sitting up.

The night before was a faint memory. Cutting himself was a blurry after thought. Stabbing Jason was… easily forgotten. Speaking to Dick about stabbing Jason was even less clear. But he did remember Dick and Alfred shaking him awake in his bed. He remembered Alfred taking his temperature and then giving him medicine.

He must of had a fever. It was a good enough excuse for his behavior, but Tim hadn't felt sick.

If Junior had been there, he'd of been all smiles and would do something like pretended to kick Alfred and Dick when they finally left his room. It was an amusing thought until Tim realized Junior (himself…) had somehow tricked them into thinking he'd had a fever.

Why did Junior want them to think he was sick? He wasn't sick. He was perfectly sane. Perfectly sane. Perfectly.

* * *

 _Tim was at a party, and for some reason or another, he was standing on the dining room table in nothing but a speedo. No one but his family seemed to be paying him any mind._

 _Bruce was shaking his head. Alfred was tsking. Jason was smiling and taking pictures. Damian looked on with indifference. And Dick looked mortified._

 _Panic set in, and Tim dropped to his knees by Dick and covered himself with his brothers' napkin._

" _How did I get here?" he whispered to his brother, but the moment Tim leaned close to Dick, Dick jumped back, startled._

 _Tim jumped back slightly in response, and turned to Alfred who now had a startled look on_ _ **his**_ _face. In fact, everyone at the table was looking at him like he'd morphed into some monster now. Even Jason lost the humor in his face._

" _Dick? Tim asked, hoping for an explanation (and possibly his brothers jacket to cover himself up)._

" _My God…" Dick breathed, shaking his head slowly in disbelief._

" _Nobody panic," Bruce said, standing slowly. "Just get up slowly."_

 _He spoke as Bruce, but his voice was that of Batman. Strong, deep, unwavering._

 _Tim looked around himself again, confused. It_ _ **seemed**_ _Bruce was talking about him, but Tim couldn't figure out why people would be afraid of him._ _ **Embarrassed**_ _for him, yes. But not afraid._

" _He looks just like him…" Jason said, hatred in his voice. "We should have killed him when we had the chance."_

" _We would be fools to make that mistake again." Damian said, looking up to Bruce._

 _The dinner guests all scurried out, and Tim watched them go, still sitting on the table and confused._

" _What are you all talking about?" Tim asked his family, when the room was clear. "Who do I look like? My father?"_

 _His father had seemed like the only possible person they could liken him to. Still, he grabbed the spoon beside Jason's abandoned plate and wiped it off on the table cloth. He held it up to his face, but dropped it immediately right after. His hands shook now, and he looked down at his pale skin._

 _He'd only gotten a glimpse of himself, but he'd seen enough. Green hair. Blood red lips. Pale skin and sickly green eyes. They were right, he_ _ **did**_ _look just like someone. He looked just like the Joker._

 _He looked up at Bruce, hoping the man would offer an explanation. Offer him hope, and a plan of action that would make him his normal self again._

 _But instead, he looked up into the barrel of a gun Bruce had pointed at his head. Dick stood behind Bruce, silent (for the first time ever) and seemingly eagerly awaiting Bruce to shoot him. Alfred stood by with a small smile on his face, like he often did when witnessing true justice being served. Jason was bouncing in anticipation, and Damian seemed content, for once, that what needed to be done was actually being done._

" _You're not gonna shoot me." Tim said, slight hysteria in his voice._

 _He spoke that, and truly, he believed it. So why were his eyes watering?_

" _You don't even use guns, Bruce." Tim said, his voice quivering uncontrollably._

 _Bruce wasn't going to shoot him. He_ _ **wasn't.**_ _He wasn't. He wasn't. He wasn't. So no need to panic. He needed to breathe._

" _Dick, tell him to put it down." Tim said, but Dick scrunched his face up, as if Tim's use of his name was disgusting._

 _It was_ _ **that**_ _reaction that made him start sweating._

" _Wouldn't be much of a loss to us…" Bruce said, and before Tim could even respond, the gun went off._

* * *

Tim jumped violently, absolutely sure he was dead.

He opened his eyes quickly, and found he was staring into Jason's. Jason had a book on his lap, but now, he wordlessly got up and left the room.

Moments later Dick came in. He was sweaty and in his workout clothes.

"Hey buddy," Dick said quietly, pulling the chair Jason had been sitting in beside the bed. "You alright?"

He put a hand on Tim's head, brushing his hair back and Tim closed his eyes at the contact.

 _Dick did not hate him. Dick did not want him dead._

"You're shaking," Dick observed.

Tim said nothing, but focused on his breathing. Dick sighed.

"He should have woken you."

 _Dick did not hate him. Dick did not want him dead._

"You're so pale," Dick said, getting up to open his curtains and crack the window, "If you start feeling achy, let me know, and I'll get your medicine. I don't want to up the dosage so I want to make sure we stay on schedule with it."

Dick sat back in the chair and pulled the blankets up higher over Tim's shoulder. He brushed Tim's hair back again, and Tim could feel him staring.

 _Dick did not hate him. Dick did not want him dead._

" _Sure about that? Like, totally 100% sure?"_

Tim jumped again. Junior was nowhere to be found, hadn't been since Tim first saw him in his reflection, but he heard the voice as loud as he heard Dick's.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Dick asked, and Tim forced himself to open his eyes and look at his brother.

"About what?" he asked, quietly.

"Anything." Dick told him. "Your nightmare. The gala. What happened in the kitchen. Bruce. Homework. Anything."

Tim just shook his head. He didn't want to talk, and truth be told, he didn't want to hear Dick's endless speaking either. His voice was grating his nerves, and Tim knew it was because he could hear the lying in it.

Too high, too fast, too everything. Lies. Lies. Lies. It was all Tim heard. Dick didn't care about getting him medicine. Dick didn't want to know what he was thinking. _No one_ wanted to know what he was thinking.

" _He's a real dick, am I right? Come on, laugh. It's punny."_

It _was_ kind of amusing, actually…

"What's funny?" Dick asked, a small smile on his face, mirroring Tim's.

Tim just shook his head. Wouldn't Dick like to know? But Tim wouldn't tell. He wouldn't tell that he knew Dick was only pretending to care about him. That he was only pretending to want Tim to feel better. Tim would never tell. It would be his little secret.

 _He always knew Dick hated him._

"No." Tim said sternly, sitting up quickly, his small smile vanishing. That wasn't true.

Dick raised a concerned eyebrow at him.

"'No' what, Timmy?" Dick asked, and Tim stared at him, hard and confused.

No… Why had he said 'no'? Why was 'no' important enough to make him sit up, even though it hurt? What had he been thinking about?

"Here, lay back down." Dick said, standing up to lay Tim down gently, "You're still pretty banged up."

"I don't understand…" Tim said, breathing heavily as he stared up at Dick's ceiling, "I'm confused…"

"About what?" Dick asked, pulling the blankets up again.

"I don't know…" Tim said, and he could feel panic right around the bend, "I'm not thinking straight… I can't remember…"

"Breathe, Tim." Dick said, brushing his hair back, "Don't let yourself get worked up. Just breathe."

Tim closed his eyes tightly, focusing on breathing. He didn't want to go to sleep, though; he knew nightmares awaited him. But then, he wasn't sure he wanted to hear Dick speak, either…

* * *

Damian liked it when it was just him and his father. If he were in a good mood, Grayson could tag along, too. But knowing his father would be leaving in a few hours made this short time together more personal. Important. Special.

Plenty of earth's delegates didn't return back to earth. Better take advantage of his father's presence now.

Of course, this was not exactly the place Damian wanted to spend his last few moments with his father.

"Why are we here?" Damian moped, looking over to his father, who sipped on the thermal full of coffee Alfred had made him.

"We're observing," his father said, putting his sunglasses on top of his head, "Just keeping a lookout."

"We've been coming here practically every day," Damian sighed, resting his head on the window, "Nothing ever happens here."

The harbor was as blank as it always was. The occasional passing ship or speed boat was the only thing disturbing the calm, murky water. Not even fish surfaced here. If there were any.

But a few miles out stood an abandoned oil rig full of secrets. It was long deserted now, but weeks ago, it had been Drake's prison for three and a half weeks. It had been captive to whatever had the boy so messed up.

Though Batman raided it constantly, he never found any evidence that explained the horrors Drake couldn't seem to recover from. There _were_ blood stains belonging to Drake within the rig. And there were discarded tools, and chains, and the electric grid had surged dramatically a few times while Drake had been gone, indicating either a power taxing machine or electroshock therapy or something similar.

But nothing that spoke of the 'why'. Only the 'what'.

"There are better things we can occupy ourselves with," Damian said, sitting up, "Plenty of people to save and places to investigate."

"We don't work during the day," his father said, "Not if we can help it. It's safer for everyone that way."

"Then what are we doing _here_? This is hero work."

"No, this is undercover work. Bruce and Damian Wayne are allowed to just look out at the water sometimes."

Damian groaned. Everything was about Drake nowadays. The nights were spent searching for the Joker. The days were spent trying to figure of just what the Joker had done, and what he may be planning. Why? Because Drake was obviously _so_ important. Drake, Drake, Drake. Drake was fragile. Drake was hurting. Drake had been through a traumatic experience with a psychotic killer clown. _Blah._ Damian was sick of it.

"This whole situation clearly isn't very distressing to you," Bruce said, "Doesn't what happened to Tim bother you?"

"No."

"Knowing he was being tortured so close to home, and waiting for a rescue that never came... How can you focus on anything else?"

"Easily."

Bruce shook his head, taking another sip of coffee. Damian rolled his window down, letting in the foul stench from the harbor.

"Smells like Todd," Damian said, absentmindedly, watching a cat dart across the lot.

Bruce smirked at the bitter comment, before his face straightened. He put his coffee down and got out the car, motioning Damian to do the same.

"It is a strong smell," Bruce said, "Jason smells like this?"

"Sometimes," Damian shrugged, "I tell him he stinks all the time."

"It's anisidine," Bruce confirmed, sniffing the air, "Burning anisidine. And some other crap."

"The harbor has never smelled like this before," Damian said, breathing through his sleeve, "And we've been here almost every day."

"And Jason smells like this?" Bruce asked again.

"Yes, I'm sure. He smelled like _this_ a few days ago. Pennyworth made him take his clothes off at the cave entrance."

Bruce hummed and Damian got back into the car. Damian knew he'd want to go home to speak with Todd.

* * *

"Jason?"

Silence.

"Jason!"

Silence.

"Jay-son!"

Silence.

" _Jason!"_

"What?"

Bruce marched into the study, where Jason was busy on the computer.

"Didn't you hear me calling you?" Bruce asked, him, and Jason shrugged.

"Yeah, I heard."

Bruce shook his head. Jason never failed to remind him of why fathers often had grey hair. As if being Batman wasn't enough.

"I need to talk to you," Bruce said, closing the laptop to get Jason's full attention.

"Obviously, it's more important than the smuggling ring I was keeping an eye on," Jason said, sitting back, "So go on."

"Down by the harbor," Bruce said, sitting on the edge of the desk, "It smells like burning anisidine. Damian says you've had the smell on you before."

"Yeah, well, Damian smells like a wet fart."

"Serious, Jason. That could be an important clue. Where do you go to get that smell?"

"Sewers," Jason said, opening the laptop back up, "Under the pier and by the harbor."

"Show me."

"Aren't you leaving the planet in like, an hour? Have you checked your bag for the ninth time, yet? How do you know you're ready if you haven't checked nine times?"

"That can wait."

Bruce could see the entire league waiting in a ship for him. All of them twiddling their thumbs, looking at Superman, because for some reason, they saw Superman as the only person who could truly talk to him. The thought amused him, and he lead Jason down to the cave where they changed.

* * *

Gotham sewers had once been on a reality show called _I Can't Believe I Did That._ Dick watched it all the time. It featured contestants doing disgusting things to win money and prizes. The longer you did the stunt, the more cash you earned. On a special episode, all the contestants had to do was sit in a relatively safe part of Gotham's sewer.

No one earned over ten dollars.

The sewers were everyone in the bat-clans least favorite place. It smelled like vomit and trash and human waste. It was dark and the lack of sun made the whole area fester with airborne diseases and bacteria that made your skin crawl. Only people on the run, and those looking for people on the run, went underground in Gotham.

And yet, this was the sixth time in a week Batman had entered them. Every time, it was with the hopes of finding something to explain Tim's behavior.

Red Hood didn't seem to mind much as his cleaned and polished boots hit the murky water of the sewer, and Batman followed suite.

"Just stay on my tail," Red Hood said, adjusting his mask, and leading the way, "And don't talk to anyone."

Batman scoffed. This was not his first time in the sewers. And he certainly didn't follow Red Hood's orders.

"Don't scoff at me," Red Hood said, "I mean it. If you were trusted down here you'd have access to all sorts of backways. If you mess this up for me, I swear-"

"You _know_ I don't let things slide." Batman cut off, "If I see something wrong. I'm gonna act on it."

"Which works for you. But this is _my_ territory. It ain't pretty, but I know how it works. So play nice."

Batman shook his head. He knew the deeper they got into the sewers, the shadier the people he'd come across. The sewers were like an underground apartment complex. A whole species of scum sought refuge from the relentless authority up above them. It took a pretty grimy person to live in such a gritty place.

The first gritty person they spotted literally screamed and ran down a sewage pipe that spewed thick, brown, muck.

Batman found the reaction amusing, but Red Hood sighed.

"Look, Bats, can you not drift around down here like some kind of zombie officer? You're scaring the locals."

Batman threw his cape back over his shoulders. He'd had it pulled around him to keep the muck that splashed from hitting his suit. He'd rather get his cape sanitized than taking apart his entire suit and doing it piece by piece. But for _Captain Jason,_ Batman compromised. A rarity. Having his cape around him was _meant_ to look frightening. The scum in the sewers wouldn't be afraid if they'd followed the law.

"I can see today's gonna be a challenge for you," Red Hood said, climbing over a large pipe that blocked their way, "But you're gonna have to fight the urge to beat up _everyone_ with a record for now."

"We don't let criminals do what they want," Batman said, annoyed he had to actually say that, "Our literal job is to turn them in."

"Come on, old man." Red Hood said, humor in his voice, "Maybe we can teach an old dog a new trick."

Red Hood knew Batman _and_ Bruce hated the term 'old man'. Alfred was old. _Elderly._ Sorry, _elderly_. Bruce was neither. And he wouldn't be until he turned, at least, 65.

Jason turned a corner, and came to a brick wall. It was a wall Batman had run past countless times. A wall he'd used to corner criminals, cutting their escape route off. A wall he'd used to knock heads against, and throw bodies at. Of course, he'd _noticed_ part of the wall's bottom bricks were not cemented down, like they ought to have been. Of course, he'd _noticed_ the much too perfect outline of several bricks. But Batman was a busy man, and he didn't often have the leisure time to investigate every odd and off-putting thing.

He had, however, put it onto a list of things he'd have one of his children investigate later. Turns out, Red Hood knew all about it, though.

With a knife he pulled out, Red Hood scrapped off an outer layer of grime in the cracks of some of the bricks on the ground and pushed on them. A perfect section of bricks was moved away easily and Red Hood got on the ground and shimmied through.

If Red Hood had to shimmy through, Batman would have a day getting through, himself. He simply stared at the opening, calculating quickly how long it would take him, and whether or not he should remove his belt. It would be nice if Red Hood had an alternative route for him.

"Come on," Red Hood said from the other side, "You can fit."

So no alternative route. Great.

With an annoyed sigh, Batman got down onto the floor and stuck an arm through the small opening. He used the stable bricks above to begin pulling himself through.

Batman had both his arms through and was as far in as his waist, when an echo of voices drifted down the tunnel. Batman gave Red Hood a look, and the boy laughed.

"Kinda in a vulnerable position, eh Bats?" he said, and Batman grunted at him.

A ruckus went up, and Batman knew his legs were spotted, which felt stupid and ridiculous. Only Red Hood got him onto those kinds of situations.

The rowdy group approaching quickly clearly consisted of younger men, probably thieves and rapists in their early to mid twenties. Most likely rash in their decisions, and had done petty time in jail. Thought they were big shots because of it.

"They'll probably try and rip off your legs," Red Hood whispered, holding in a laugh, "You know _that_ kind. The YOLO kind."

"Yo- _what_?" Batman asked.

"Go grab his legs, Bunny!" one of the men shouted, "Get 'is belt!"

"Either help me through," Batman said, "Or help them to the hospital."

Red Hood leant against the brick wall, folding his arms. Red Hood was like that. His sense of timing was impeccably annoying. He could wait until the last minute for any situation, and still get things done. Batman preferred to do things immediately. He didn't like waiting or stalling.

"I don't know, watching you get your legs pulled off could be kinda fun."

"If they touch me…" Batman warned, and Red Hood shook his head.

Batman could knock every person outside the wall out, even without his arms or sight. The men on the other side would be beside themselves watching whoever dared touch Batman get torn a new one with just Batman's legs and feet.

It was a humorous, but unnecessary, path to take. And, a waste of time. Red Hood had his moment of fun. He watched Batman get stuck in a wall. But now it was back to business.

He grabbed Batman's arms and gave a few strong pulls, effectively getting the man fully through. Another ruckus went up as the men were amazed that Batman seemed to magically glide through what looked to be a space much too small for him.

Red Hood simply put the wall of bricks back, dragging a case full of bricks that was nearby just for situations like that, and blocked the bricks from being moved out of place again from the outside.

Batman dusted himself off and adjusted his crooked cape. He was already hating following Red Hood around.

"Come on, old man." Red Hood said, continuing down the sewer, "This is Killer Croc's territory and we don't want to run into him."

Batman didn't move, choosing instead to study the dank sewage that ran beside the stone path he stood on. Killer Croc loved to jump out and surprise his victims, but you could always tell he was coming by the stream of bubbles he blew when he swam underwater. You just had to be silent and watch a moment.

"Seriously, come on." Red Hood said, "Killer Croc does frequent here."

"And you don't want to catch him?"

"Ordinarily, no, I don't." Red Hood said, honestly, "He stinks. But down here, the element of surprise is our objective, and fighting with Killer Croc destroys that completely. The thing growls like a tiger every time you hit it."

Batman bawled his fists up, but followed after Red Hood. He could find Killer Croc easily if he set his mind to it. Knowing a major villain could be within a mile of him, and doing nothing about that, made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It made the veins in his forehead throb. It burned him up in a way that honed his senses and put him on high alert. Killer Croc was a vicious killer, and any lives that were lost would fall back on Batman right now.

Nothing pissed him off more. But he reminded himself that he was down in the sewers for Tim. Getting stuck in a wall, ignoring petty criminals, and letting high alert villains go about their business unbothered was all for Tim. And Tim, his _son,_ was worth it.

He was worth everything.

"I smell it." Batman said, looking around, "That burning smell. It's coming from around here."

"Yeah, partly," Red Hood said, going thigh deep into sewage where the pathway ended suddenly, "We're under City Hall and the Gotham Gazette now. Piers to the left, and the GCPD is that way."

Batman knew exactly where he was and how he was orientated. But, he'd admit that he'd never been in this part of the sewers before. He was thrown so hard at the floor in City Hall that he'd hit the pipes, once. But he'd never ventured much further than that simply because he hadn't needed to.

He was fortunate Red Hood seemingly knew the area. If only the boy knew which direction he was going.

"The harbors the _other_ way," Batman said, tying his cape up and out the sewage as the muck rose to their waists, "You're taking us towards the train station."

"I know."

"So… we've got to turn around," Batman emphasized, when Red Hood didn't slow down to orientate himself.

"Going that way gets us to the _east_ side of the harbor. You've got to go all the way around to get to the _real_ west side."

The _real_ west side? Maybe Batman had underestimated Red Hood's sewer knowledge.

"I've gone that way for years," Batman said, "I've never seen any other way to get there."

"That's because you take the mainlines. The guys _I_ chase avoid the mainlines like the plague."

The ground finally turned into a ramp, and Batman and Red Hood climbed it to raise themselves out of the sewage, finally. The smell was putrid, and gag worthy. But, the smell of anisidine grew stronger every step, and that was bittersweet.

"We're getting closer to the smell," Batman observed, "Where's it coming from."

Red Hood motioned above them.

"The Gotham Gazette is supposed to be going paperless and online, so they're printing less physical papers and going green," he said, "But on Sunday's, they still push out papers. That smell is the ink burning in the printing press. They use anisidine for the ink in the headlines for some dumb reason."

So, the Gazette was shooting that foul smell around Gotham. The Gazette was miles from the harbor, though. The smell of it's printing press should not have been so strong, or even present, at the harbor. Unless, that is, something in the sewers had changed recently.

Red Hood clearly knew of the change, and _that_ was where he was leading Batman. It was hard, but Batman needed to trust him. On his own, he'd only waste time and shake up trouble figuring it out on his own.

Red Hood definitely was making this trip easier.

"This next bit is gonna be tricky." Red Hood said, lowly, "Just don't say anything and stop scowling so much."

Batman sighed. Red Hood was helpful, but when he said things like that, it made Batman want to take over.

"Trust me," Red Hood said, straightening his jacket.

"I do." Batman said, resigning himself to Tim's cause.

As long as he focused on Tim, the tasks became a little bit easier.

Jason said nothing to the complement, most likely unsure how to take it. He was as awkward accepting the complement as Batman was giving it. But he'd be darned if he let himself push away another one of his sons.

A change in attitude, and a little more trust, was possibly in order. Besides, hadn't Red Hood earned it?

...mostly?

The two came up to another brick wall, this one, though, was clearly a door. Red Hood gave a special knock, and a slot in the door opened, revealing the eyes of a man behind it.

"Let me in, Benny." Red Hood said, casually.

The eyes behind the door shifted to Batman uneasily, and the man laughed nervously.

"Oh, geez, Red Hood," Benny stuttered, his voice high and nasally, "How ya doin'? You know- _ordinarily_ , you know- I would _love-_ and I mean _love-_ to let you in. I mean, you know I would Red Hood, but, the- I mean _he's-_ you know, not on the guest list. You know?"

"He won't mess with anyone," Red Hood said, leaning against the door, "I give you my word. My words good, isn't it?"

"Geez, Red Hood, I mean, you know I respect your word. I mean, I _breathe_ your word, you know I do. But, the boys back here, you know how they are, all squeamish and such. You _know_ not me, though, Red, no sir, not me. I _breathe_ your wor-"

"Let me in, Benny," Red Hood repeated coolly, "Before word gets out about what you did to April last Friday. I hear her brothers are out of jail on good behavior. Hate to send them back."

Like magic words, the sound of locks coming undone echoed off the walls and the heavy brick door began to swung open.

"What happened to playing nice?" Batman asked lowly, and Red Hood shrugged.

"I get bored of nice."

"Welcome, to the inside!" Benny announced,stepping aside, "You know-"

"Move."

Red Hood pushed past the tall, but lame man, who leaned heavily on a walking stick. Benny was smiling nervously, looking behind him at numerous guys who had paused in their activities to observe who had just entered.

No one looked pleased, and Benny would certainly take the blame for anything to have resulted from his decision to save his own skin, rather than keep the door locked. They didn't know, after all, that Batman was coming through whether Benny opened the door or not.

Red Hood didn't slow down or even glance at the groups of men they passed. The tough faces they plastered on their faces gave Batman a little kick, but overall, he was pissed. This was _two whole nights_ worth of criminals. And they were just _standing_ around. Just _one_ smoke pellet, and Batman won. _One_ gas pellet, and he didn't even need to fight.

They were sitting ducks, here.

The instinct to tie into Tim's feed was strong and nearly overwhelming. When confronted in a situation this delicate, Batman would normally send Tim bits of information. A beacon to show the location, a short recording of overheard audio, a few pictures to give an essence of the area and situation. Tim could have those clues deciphered and organized by time Batman returned home, and some other day, they'd return to finish whatever hadn't been started. They could return and spy on the area at leisure.

Not having Tim available was a handicap Batman was growing tired of. It took having the boy out of the game completely for him to realize how much work Tim actually did for him. Even when the boy was sick, Batman still used him, and he was happy to oblige.

Now, Batman just took his bits of stolen information and mental notes. It was all he _could_ do.

"Come on, old man. This way." Red Hood said, once they left the bulk of the crowds.

The sewers branched off into several directions, and Red Hood lead the way down a dark, narrow one. Clearly, it was less used, which didn't seem odd because the smell was so putrid even Batman had to focus his breathing.

He'd once thought the smell of an old, dead, and burning cow was the worst smell he'd ever endured.

But no, this one took the cake.

The narrow path ended abruptly, opening to a flooded, but spacious room that held at least twenty different smaller paths that lead in all directions. Water and sunlight poured in from the grates above as rain fell, and sludge poured in from rusted pipes.

Red Hood didn't seem daunted by the sudden change in scenery. Instead, he pulled out a small black spray can, and began spraying his boots and pants.

"Here," he said, tossing the can when he finished, "Spray your boots and pants."

"Why?"

Batman began spraying his boots, and the smell of the liquid inside the can made him freeze and cough.

"What is this?"

"Dunno," Red Hood shrugged, "But it protects against the acid in the water."

"Acid?"

"Pushed a guy in here once, and his hair caught on fire. Watched his skin melt right off his bones."

That… was a conversation for another day. "Where'd you get this?" Batman asked, spraying the last of the can on his pants."

"The brats closet," Red Hood said, lowering himself carefully into the acid lake, "That things chalk full of crap like this."

Tim _was_ a bit of a mad scientist. The invention of the spray was a conversation he'd love to have with the boy. But a tool as handy as acid protection was something Tim would gladly tell Bruce about. He wouldn't hide it if it were ready for the streets.

"What's wrong with it?" Batman asked, following Red Hood into the water, "Why hasn't Robin told me about it."

"About that," Red Hood said, "Apparently, the formulas not ready."

Batman sighed, holding his cape up higher. "How long do we have?"

"'Bout three minutes."

The volt of acid was large, but crossable in three minutes as long as they didn't slow down. The smooth ceiling and lack of bars over the drains above them gave them nothing to hook their grappling guns to. If the spray failed, they were done for.

Which Batman wasn't worried about. Red Hood picked his way through the acid with practiced intention and a good speed. Batman's biggest concern, at the moment, was making sure he didn't trip over something hidden in the murky depths.

The liquid rose just under his waistline, and was the color of copper compounds, which was Brunswick green. It was so dark, it was close to black, even in the light. From a distance, Batman couldn't tell, but now he saw the tiny yellow bubbles that floated up from the bottom, as if this were a giant soda.

"Starting to burn a bit," Red Hood announced, finally reaching the other side of the room and climbing onto the platform he'd crossed to.

Red Hood went to where the rain was falling in from the storm drains above to rinse the acid from himself, and Batman followed him immediately. He'd felt the tiny pricks of acid biting through the remainder of the spray, himself. It had felt like bee stings. If, the bee was on fire. And coated in venom. And frozen. And he were allergic.

But Batman would never tell that. He'd wear his stoic grimace to the end.

"That smell is nauseating," Batman coughed, finally allowing himself to take a breath of fresh air in the rebreather he kept in his belt.

"I've been using a rebreather from the start," Red Hood shrugged, "I can't stand the sewers."

Batman gave him a look. He only used rebreathers if it were absolutely necessary. And he insisted his team did, as well. This, though, was a debatable situation.

"Just down this hallway is where I've been investigating," Red Hood said, leading the way, "That anisidine smell is much stronger here, though the smell of the acid overpowers it."

The Gotham Gazette was far behind them, now, so the anisidine smell in this area was suspicious. Especially as strong as it was.

Red Hood turned a corner, and Batman saw the exact moment his body tensed and went into the classic fight or flight response. He didn't engage react any further, so there was no immediate danger.

"That's new," he said, and Batman approached him.

Another brick wall blocked their way. But this wall was different. Quickly and messily spray painted on the wall, and giant green bat had been tagged.

Batman and Red Hood shared a look, and Red Hood backed away and turned his head away. A small bomb later and the wall was gone.

Red Hood was right. Even the drifting smell of acid didn't wash out the strong smell of anisidine that was released when the wall gave. When the smoke finally cleared, Batman entered the room with squinted eyes and a renewed sense of injustice done to his son.

The room was larger than the vat of acid, and the walls were sloppily painted purple and green. Low bobbing and popped balloons, as well as confetti and noisemakers lay discarded around, as if a party had been thrown. The entire room was empty of furniture, save for one machine, an old printing press.

The machine screamed as paper after paper shot out, adding more paper to the already littered floor. Papers were tapped to the wall clumsily where the paint didn't quite reach, and they all read the same headline: **Joker Adopts an Heir**.

The photo on the cover made Batman ball up the colorless paper he'd picked up. Harley Quinn was in the photo, waving as she posed in a revealing nurse outfit. Joker stood by casually, wearing surgical attire, one hand behind his back, the other holding the clicker that engaged the camera.

Both of them smiled brightly, standing by a surgical table that was laden down with restraints. The angle of the camera did not reveal Robin's body or face, but his feet were seen, both of them tensed and awkward and obviously, in pain. Cables and wires connected a giant, sparking machine to the table where they had been electrocuting Robin.

There was no article written, and no date. Just a headline, a photo, and the words: _by Mr. J and H.Q. 3_.

The room shook violently as an explosion went off down the hall. Shouting and yelling grew as what sounded to be a mob of well over a hundred charged in their direction.

No doubt, Joker had some sort of transmitting device in the now destroyed wall. The moment Batman broke in, the clown knew he'd had Batman.

Batman felt Red Hood's gaze on him. But even more, Batman felt his entire body go hot. He hadn't felt that enraged since Jason's death, and logically, he knew he needed to calm down. Logically, he asked himself if he were still in the mental health he needed to be in, in order to leave the planet and defend earth. Logically, he knew he needed to show restraint.

But logic to hell, because he was _beyond_ pissed.

"We should avoid them," Red Hood said, jogging out the room and looking back the way they'd come.

If Red Hood was trying to avoid a fight, something was wrong. He knew a fight with the Dark Knight would not end well. He knew the approaching group of people had never seen a danger like the man they ran towards. He knew leaving was the better option at the moment.

Batman simply tossed the empty spray can on the ground. Without the spray, they could not get passed the acid. There was no way out, besides through the raging and yelling men that headed their way.

"Bruce," Red Hood whispered strongly, approaching him, "You once told me that our ability to fight was a blessing and a curse. We're stronger and better than every person coming our way, right now. We both know that. I know you're pissed, but we-"

Though Batman's blood had been rushing through his ears, he'd heard Red Hood. He truly, truly had. He'd even gone as far as agreeing with him. But just as he'd been about to decide that Red Hood was right, and that he'd show the same amount of restraint as he always did, a snarling face rounded the corner, and Batman saw only red.

And so did everyone else.

Batman shoved Red Hood to the side and it was over before it began. Batman went through men faster than they could get into the room. Guns went off, chains hit brick, sparks flew, bats splintered, and none of it mattered.

Tim, his _son_ , had suffered at the hands of a man who _celebrated_ pain. Well, when Batman got his hands on that clown, the clown could celebrate until his heart gave out, because Batman planned to put it out of commission anyway. No more would his children be subjects in that psycho's sick experiments.

The less than innocent faces around him wore snarls and displayed scars and battle wounds that boosted macho, but irrational confidence and status. And yet, Batman saw only laughing clown faces. He saw blood red smiles. Green hair. He heard cackles instead of screams. They were all Joker to him. All guilty. All responsible.

His fists didn't stop swinging until Red Hood grabbed his arm to stop him from punching an already unconscious man.

The floor was littered with close to two hundred, and though Red Hood hadn't touched one, Batman still felt his adrenaline rush. He took a deep breath, and wordlessly, he followed Red Hood, who lead them out of the sewers.

* * *

 **And scene.**

 **Tim is definitely getting worse, am I right? He's hardly getting a single, cohesive thought across.**

 **But, from an objective viewpoint, Bruce and the others aren't as passive and unaware as Tim's POV suggested they were. Wonder what's gonna happen _next!_ Yourreviews inspire and encourage me! **

**Cheers, everyone!**


	15. Green Eyes

**It's been a hot minute, eh? Because you guys rock, and because it's been so long, this'll be a double chapter, so look out for the next one soon!**

* * *

Tim's incident had been a few hours ago and Dick had not slept or rested since. There was still no insight as to _why_ Tim had done what he'd done to himself.

Alfred had been alerted the moment the sun had risen. After returning from his outing with Bruce, Damian had popped into the room to form his own updated assessment of the situation out of curiosity, then disappeared. After coming back from the sewers with Bruce, Jason claimed he had his own injuries to tend to, and went to sleep. But besides Tim himself, it was Bruce Dick worried the most about.

He'd made the family swear to let him be the one to tell Bruce about what had happened, but even though Bruce was alone and not busy, Dick found the matter hadn't been discussed to any length.

Honestly, Dick had hoped that Bruce would ask, himself. Tim hadn't been down to dine with them since Jason had been stabbed. He hadn't asked about patrol. He hadn't been seen by Bruce at all, which Dick knew the man had taken note of, but for some reason, did not investigate further.

The more time passed, the more Dick hesitated to tell Bruce. What would happen if Dick said, and Bruce completely flipped his lid on Tim? It would only break the boy further.

But what would happen if Dick told, and Bruce did nothing. Didn't care enough to get involved?

Dick shook his head. He knew better. Yes, Bruce was hard headed. But it was obvious that Bruce genuinely _loved_ Tim. It was a fact that Dick didn't doubt a bit. Yet, he would be the first to admit that he was stalling on delivering the news out of fear.

Lying to Bruce was always a no-no. The man just hated liars, and lying, and lies. It was a simple truth the bat-kids had learned early on. To tread around the house, like all was well, put everyone on edge.

Bruce hadn't _asked_ , so technically, they weren't _lying._ But withholding the truth was a subcategory of lying, and that was nearly just as bad. What Tim had done to himself needed to be reported to the older man, sooner, rather than later.

Tension in the manor was high, and everyone felt it, but Bruce was leaving soon, and that was the light at the end of the tunnel. Delegations in another quadrant that required a keen eye and detective skills had Bruce packing his bags on the cold January evening.

Alfred had already packed his bags, but Bruce felt the need to reevaluate everything in his case.

"It's only for a week," Dick said, leaning on the frame in Bruce's bedroom doorway. "You don't need to pack the backups for the backups _for_ the backups."

"I said this _shouldn't_ be longer than a week," Bruce corrected, "Could be more, could be less."

"And if it's less then you'll have lugged that giant case around for no reason. I swear you're trying to give yourself back problems."

"Well if it's more then I'll be glad I brought extra clothes and supplies. No refills where I'm going."

Dick shrugged, walking into the room and laying across the bed. Bruce just began working around him. There was a question, a suggestion, really, that Dick had to say before Bruce left.

The argument and tension between Bruce and Tim had gone on for too long, and with Bruce about to go off world, now was a good time to part on good terms. Both boys wanted to move on, though neither had said so. Everyone knew Tim needed Bruce's support at the moment, but no one moved to make it happen.

It was infuriating.

Before Dick could open his mouth to express that, Bruce beat him to it.

"This time away might be good for him. I'm gonna leave it as is."

"I thought we agreed that you needed to sit down with him," Dick sighed, "Bruce, he's-"

"Fine. He'll be fine. You know he is, I know he is. This break with me away will be good for him."

"Bruce, he's _seeing hallucinations_. Or something. I don't know, I guess it's that, but what do I know? I don't deal with sane people, I deal with the crazies. _You_ need to talk with him. Diagnose him yourself. I think this is out of my league, I really do."

"Hallucinations comes with a fever. He'll be fine."

Dick groaned, "This not how people work, Bruce. I thought you already decided that time was not a healing factor in this. I thought you were gonna talk to him."

"He'll be _fine_."

"Couldn't you just say 'hey Tim, I'm sorry I yelled at you those weeks ago. You're doing a good job'. And then that's it! Get on a ship, mope for an hour or whatever, and then everyone can move on."

Bruce said nothing, but Dick knew the man wasn't even thinking about it.

A throat was cleared from the hallway then, and Dick sat up to find Damian was there with a large bookbag over his shoulder. He looked peeved off, which was not unusual, but Dick jumped up anyway.

"I didn't forget, kiddo." he said, standing and stretching, "See look, I'm up."

"You're useless, Grayson." was Damian's simple reply as he walked away.

Bruce just shook his head.

"You're sure you want to send him away so soon?" Dick asked.

"Soon?"

"I mean so young. You went with me when I trained in the Alps. Why don't you go with Damian when you get back?"

"Jason went alone." Bruce said, inspecting a set of razors in his bag, "Tim went alone, too."

"Yeah, but-"

"He's beaten Alfred in combat, he's ready. The Alps'll be a good time for him to meditate and be alone. You're not good alone, that's why I went with you. Besides, Alfred's going with him. It's only for the weekend."

"He's still only-"

"Dick."

And that one firm saying of his name made Dick be quiet. Bruce had reached his limit of hearing Dick's schemes of trying to keep the family happy and together, which was fine. Honestly, Dick had expected to be kicked out by now.

"Alright," he said, his hands up, "I'm done intruding on domestic affairs."

"Thank you."

"Never mind the fact that I _am_ in the domestic affair, but whatever."

Dick left the room. He was the one driving Damian and Alfred to the airport, where Alfred would check into a hotel and Damian would make his way to the Chinese monks in the Alps on his own. Dick was definitely worried about his youngest brother, but at the same time, he knew his brother would make it alright. Besides, Bruce was right, Alfred would be close by, and Alfred was a survivor. He'd make sure nothing happened to Damian, and Damian would make sure nothing happened to Alfred.

"Hey Jason, you want to ride with me?" Dick asked, swinging the keys on his finger as he walked by the living room.

Jason was reclining on the couch, his shoes on the pillows and his head resting on the chair arm. He was typing away on his computer, the screen light on low to make it harder to for anyone walking by to see what he was doing.

"You're dropping the demon off?" Jason asked, not bothering to look up at him.

"I'm dropping _Damian_ and Alfred off, yeah."

"Nothing on earth could force me into that car."

"All you had to say was 'no thank you'," Dick muttered, walking away.

Tim and Damian did _not_ get along, and, Tim was resting, so Dick could count him out of the ride. Though, Tim and Jason didn't get along either, and Dick would be leaving them with Bruce, which at times could be equivalent to leaving them alone...

Which would be fine, Dick reassured himself. He wouldn't be gone long. He had to be back in time to see Bruce off.

Then he'd be home for the weekend. With Alfred gone, Dick would be keeping a diligent eye on Tim, himself. Jason could patrol on his own for a few nights, and Dick would monitor from his laptop. And Oracle would watch from the clock tower. And everything would be fine. Fine, fine. Always fine.

At least, that's was what Dick told himself…

Tim had called him an actor. Said he lied too much, which Dick disagreed with. Or at least, he had. But honestly, how much did he _really_ believe that everything would work itself out? Tim was recovering from cutting himself. He wasn't over his kidnapping. He and Bruce weren't speaking. No one got along with each other. The family couldn't even sit down to a meal without someone getting stabbed anymore.

How was that fine?

It wasn't. But Dick assured everyone that it would be. He assured _himself_ that it would be. And for what?

"Grayson," Damian snapped, standing by the open front door, "Daydream _after_ you drop me off."

For everyone, Dick decided, nodding his head. He assured everyone they would fine for their own sakes. And for his own. _Someone_ had to. And as long as he believed it, which he did, then it would be true.

Everything would be alright.

* * *

Everything was all wrong.

His clothes, his hair, even his smell… Last Tim checked, he'd been in bed. He'd been resting. Following Dick's orders to a T, and taking it easy.

So how did he end up- _scratch that_. He always seemed to wonder how he got himself into those situations, but he already knew the 'how' and sometimes, even the 'why'. Junior. Junior was the who, what, when, where, why, and how.

Tim took a calming breath as he surveyed the unfamiliar area.

He was in some sort of pub or bar and the smell of cigarettes and alcohol was dizzying. The lighting was dark/nonexistent, the ceiling was dirty, the tables were dirty, food and smears of unidentified liquids and marks took up more space on the walls than the old, peeling wallpaper. The hardly cushioned and long hardened dark red chairs were torn, reupholstered, and torn up again, revealing old, smelly, and dirty cushioning. Peanut shells and bits of food littered the shredded up carpet and a mice or six could be seen every now and then, feasting on the plethora of garbage on the ground.

The jungle of people that scurried about was the bar personified. They were piled on top of each other, like the mice, and were dingy, dirty, and suspicious looking. Every person that passed by sent a smell swirling through the air that reeked of an unlawful night and unbathed flesh.

Tim found himself in a booth, neatly tucked into the back of the bar and out of sight of practically everyone. He wore an old, tattered pair of jeans and a t shirt he'd never seen before. He wore, too, a leather jacket that was too big on him. One that smelled of cigarettes and soap, which was Jason's signature smell; a nasty habit mixed with the essence of over entitlement and good home training.

Jason would _kill_ Tim if he knew he'd taken one of his jackets without permission.

His hair felt spiked up, but weighed down with product. He smelled of beer and smoke. He wore sneakers he hadn't touched in at least a year. The combination of his own dirty state mixed with his environment made his stomach churn and his head hurt.

Call him pretentious. Call him snobby. Call him bougie, but outside of his Robin suit, this was _not_ a place he'd visit. Or even _think_ to visit. Or was even _allowed_ to visit. He was certainly underage to be in a place like he was, though the people here seemed less than rigid when it came to the law.

Why had Junior brought ( _and left_ ) him here?

Tim was planning his escape through the rowdy crowd of people. Simply walking out unnoticed and unknown was totally out of the question for Bruce Wayne's… live in child, Tim supposed he was known as.

But then he heard it. A laugh that sent chills down the spines of the few ignorant people who didn't even know who the voice belonged to. It made Tim jump to hit feet and dive behind the booth.

The floor was filthy and a rat hissed and scurried away, but Tim didn't move. The cackling laugh settled right where Tim had just occupied. What was left of the leather squeaked as the man made himself comfortable, and Tim clenched his shaking hands.

It was like he'd never seen or met the Joker before.

" _Pee-yoo_ , Mr. J," came Harley Quinn's voice, "This place is a _dive_!"

"Harley, Harley, Harley," came the Joker's voice, "This may not be our kind of place, but it's our kind of _people._ Look around, Harls, it _smells_ like progress!"

"It smells like _somethin',_ alright."

" _Let's pop up and say hi to dad…"_

Tim covered his mouth and focused on not hyperventilating. He could pass out. If someone saw him, in a place like this, he was done for. Totally, inescapably, done for. And if, somehow, Joker found out that the Robin he'd kidnapped, was actually Tim Drake, and right under his nose, Tim's kidnapping would be nothing compared to what would lie ahead for him.

He needed to get out of that place.

"Mr. Jay that fellas lookin' at me funny," Harley whined.

"Harley, everyone looks at you funny," Joker explained, and Harley verbally pouted, "But it's only cause you're such a looker. If I stood up to every guy that looked at you- aw, who am I kidding?"

A gunshot rang loud and clear and Tim jumped. People complained loudly, but much sooner than it should have, music returned and everyone put whoever had been shot probably both out of sight and out of mind.

"Thanks, puddin'" Harley sang.

" _Man, dad really knows how blend in. Let's ask him how he does it…"_

The thought that he might black out and wake up to find himself face to face with the Joker made Tim's stomach flip in a way he was sure it had never before. He couldn't remember being as terrified as he was, and coming from someone who'd been hit with fear gas numerous times, was saying a lot.

He was trapped in an impossible situation with a madman behind him, and inside of him. This night would _not_ be over soon.

It never was, with him.

* * *

Jason entered Dick's room, his hands in his pockets, and chewing something he'd probably stole out the pot of whatever Alfred was currently cooking. Last minute, Batman sent word that he wanted Damian to go on his journey completely alone, meaning, without Alfred. He claimed he had someone else assigned to watch over the boy on his journey, so Alfred was back home, where he belonged.

Jason leaned against the wall, looking at the numerous pictures Dick had displayed on his dresser.

There were pictures of Dick and his best friend, Wally. Him and his girlfriend, Kory. Him and the civilian clad Titans. Him and Conner and Artemis and M'gann and Roy and Kaldur'ahm. Him and his parents. Him and his new family, all of his brothers and Bruce and Alfred reluctant to smile for the picture.

Dick had many friends. He had a lot of family. But his closest family seemed to be the one that needed the most help. The most fixing. The most effort. Luckily, Dick had never shied away from hard work and effort… which, it seemed, Jason had sought him out for.

"What's up, Jason?" Dick asked, "Lonely?"

Dick was laying back in bed, typing away on his computer. The assassins from the gala had been apprehended and we're now identified, but Bruce had tasked Dick with breaking down both of the organizations that the assassins worked for. It seemed a daunting task because it was one.

Tim's help would be greatly appreciated about then.

Jason scoffed and Dick literally watched him make the split decision to stay instead of just walk out the door in annoyance. Jason was like that sometimes. If he was in a good mood, he'd walk away from annoying situations instead of face them head on. If he faced it head on, blood would probably be shed.

"Just walking around." Jason said, coming further into the room.

While aimlessly walking around the giant manor was something everyone did from time to time, Dick saw the quest Jason had in his eyes. He saw the topic Jason skidded around, trying to find a way to bring it up.

Jason was very straight forward, like Damian and Bruce. He wouldn't treat any subject too sensitive for very long if it took too long for him to approach it. Tim, on the other hand, always had trouble speaking. He could skip around a subject for literal days until he finally spit out what was on his mind.

"Just ask, Jason." Dick said, putting his computer aside and sitting up, "You've got my full attention."

"You, uh," Jason started, "You notice the Replacement's been acting kind of… weird?"

Dick almost corrected Jason, but resisted. Jason actually sought Dick out to speak about Tim. Dick would not dampen that effort with technicalities like names. He had to choose his battles.

"Tim's a weird dude." Dick smirked, instead, before frowning, "What little we know of his kidnapping kind of explains his behavior, though. He's traumatized, Jason. We're all handling this as best we can."

"I mean his attitudes different," Jason mused, "He's...I don't know… changed. Like, majorly within the past few days."

"He's been a little depressed-"

"He's always depressed."

"He did just lose his dad, Jason. Everyone keeps forgetting that… "

"That's not it, Dick." Jason said, walking over to the window, "Couple nights ago, I saw him sneak out his window. Ran off through the grass, towards town."

" _What_?" Dick asked, before he sighed and massaged his temples, "Bruce would kill him. Does he know?"

Jason shrugged, "I didn't tell him."

"What does that have to do with his attitude, though, Jay?"

"We know he's been depressed and jumpy and paranoid and all that."

"Yeah."

"But, I don't know, does he look kinda happy to you?"

"Happy?" Dick asked, skeptically, and Jason sighed.

Jason knew what he was saying, and what he meant to say. The depressed and moping about Tim was the Tim they had somehow grown accustomed to. Seeing him slink around the shadows and keep himself locked in his room was increasingly become the norm, though everyone knew it shouldn't be.

But sometime lately, and Jason wasn't totally sure when, Tim's eyes had changed. They'd dropped that steely, deadpanned look and had lit up, like a child seeing their answer was a multiple choice option on a test. There was a light in them Jason had never seen, and frankly, it was creeping the mess out of him.

"We'll keep an eye on him," Dick said, watching Jason carefully, "See if he sneaks out again, I mean."

"He already did," Jason admitted, "Last night. I followed him this time but I lost him by the harbor. He just vanished. Couldn't find him until I got back home. The kid was in bed like he'd never left."

"Was he sleepwalking?"

"Never seen a sleepwalker pull moves like he did. He didn't seem… aware of himself, though. If that makes sense."

"The harbor. Why would he go there? Maybe-"

"Why else?"

"You don't think-"

"I don't know."

"What if-"

"Don't say that."

Dick bit his lip.

"I'm gonna go ask him. He's asleep in his room right now."

"I'm coming, too." Jason said, and he followed Dick out the room.

* * *

"He'll be here, Mr. Jay," Harley said, "Don't worry. You did a number on him. He ain't got no choice!"

"Harley," Joker said, calmly, "Do I look worried?"

Harley said nothing, but Tim hoped that was because Joker _did_ look worried. Any discomfort to the clown was a win in his book.

Apparently, though, the two were waiting for someone. A tiny, rational, and terrified part of him wondered if they were waiting on _him._ Had Junior brought him here because the Joker wanted him?

A louder voice, though, reasoned that the Joker did a number on probably a hundred people a day. What were the chances that _he_ was the specific victim they waited for?

" _There's only one way to find out…"_

* * *

"Dick, calm the frick down," Jason said, filtering himself for Alfred's sake.

"Do breathe, master Dick," Alfred added, setting up a perimeter to scan the city, "He cannot be far."

Dick became Nightwing when he applied his mask and jumped on his motorcycle.

"I'll be out in a minute," Jason said, smoothing his hair back to put his hood on.

Nightwing nodded, speeding out the cave.

"Master Jason," Alfred called, when he was sure Nightwing was gone, "A word, please."

Sticking his hood under his arm, Jason made his way over to the computers, where Alfred was scanning street cameras.

"What's up?" Jason asked, and Alfred pulled up the security footage for a sneaker store.

Jason had seen the store before, on one of his many patrols. This store was _not_ in a nice neighborhood, to put it mildly.

Jason narrowed his eyes in confusion, watching as Alfred fast forwarded through the footage. Random strangers passed, and teenagers stopped and pointed and took pictures to show their parents later. And then Jason saw it, a kid with black hair, a very familiar leather jacket, and was no older than 19, walking by the sneaker window. He paused long enough to look directly at the camera, smile, and then walked on.

"Go back a bit," Jason said, leaning closer to the screen as Alfred rewound, "There."

Alfred paused the clip on Tim's smile.

Seeing Tim smile had always grated Jason's nerves. He held a true, undeniable hatred towards the kid, and always had. Luckily for him, Tim was shy and reserved and had always kept to himself. His efforts to bond with Jason had been thwarted early on in their relationship.

Seeing it now held a different weight to it. This smile was not at all like the smile Jason was used to seeing. This smile wasn't held back and shown only because Tim physically couldn't help it. This smile was broad, and wide, and knowing. He smiled directly at the camera because he knew someone would be watching this tape later, and he was teasing the viewers.

Why would someone sneaking around do that?

Jason recalled sharply hearing Dick comment on Tim's laugh a while back. The boy had burst into laughter at the dinner table, and everyone had thought him sick. Dick had mentioned that Tim's laugh had been 'weird and unusual'. That was exactly how Tim's smile was here.

"Look at his eyes," Alfred said, zooming in and sharpening the poor image, "They're… they're…"

"Green." Jason finished, putting his helmet on.

"Something dreadfuls happening to him," Alfred fret, "Worse than even _I_ could have imagined."

"Keep scanning the streets," Jason instructed, running to his own motorcycle, "I'm gonna join Dick."

"I'll start my search in the area," Alfred nodded.

No wonder Alfred didn't show Dick the video. Dick was already beside himself. The video, the green eyes…? Dick would have a heart attack.

It was best to probably keep the details under wraps for now and just find the kid. Everything else could be explained later.


	16. With a Bang!

How long was an hour when you knew your life could be over at the end of it? To Tim, he reasoned an hour wasn't long at all, in those regards. But then again, his thoughts were always morbid and dark when he was afraid or particularly emotional. They always leaned towards Edgar Allen Poe inspired poetry and suicidal thoughts and black holes in his mind that he typically used to store his emotions and feelings inside of.

"Kid's short a few crayons in the box, puddin'," Harley whispered, staring at Tim with widened, but amused eyes, "I think he's cracked."

"He's _definitely_ crazy," Joker laughed, "And while I _like_ crazy-"

The gun trained on Tim's head cocked, and Tim closed his eyes. This was Joker, so who knew the horrors of his gun? Maybe it squirted acid. Maybe it squirted water. Maybe it was a real gun. With Joker, the odds were, as always, up in the air.

Tim didn't remember standing up. He didn't know _how_ he'd gotten Harley Quinn's hat. Or _why_ he was pulling the thread from the hat out behind his back. But here he was, staring into the barrel of a gun he was certain would go off soon.

Who would find his body, and would they wonder why he had a hat with hanging thread in his lifeless hands?

Like in slow motion, though, hope for his future was restored.

The shadow in the window caught his attention first. Then it caught someone else's and they screamed, alerting the rest of the bar, which erupted into chaos almost immediately.

"Mr. Jay, look!" Harley yelled, and the shadow in the window became a form, and Nightwing on a motorcycle crashed through the bar unapologetically.

Red Hood followed, shooting up at the sky and sending the people in the bar scampering and running and screaming for their lives.

To Tim, he simply saw his brothers enter a room as they normally did in costume: loud, messy, and _not_ using a door. To everyone else… well, Tim could see how they could be alarmed. Red Hood on his own usually warranted a few cries and Nightwing's presence alone sent scum running in most situations.

Joker and Harley were distracted though, and Tim used that. He was an opportunist.

He kicked the gun out of Joker's hand, watching it land on the ground and slide under another table. He used Harley's hat in his hand to cover his face when Nightwing cast a scanning look his way, briefly, before moving on. Joker and Harley ducked down, out of his line of sight. They didn't want to be seen, and Tim did _not_ want Red Hood or Nightwing to notice him, though undoubtedly, he was the reason they were there.

Pulling several threads out from the hat, he twisted them into one and used it in his own defense when Harley leapt to attack in retaliation of Tim kicking the gun away from Joker.

"You're gonna regret that, kid," she said, jumping up onto the top of the booth gracefully, balancing on the neck, "Should'a let Mr. Jay kill ya. Would'a been a faster death."

Fights with Joker and Harley Quinn were never quiet. The pair were loud and showy and casualties were practically unavoidable. Tim _would_ draw attention to himself if he decided to take them on, and outside of costume, he couldn't fight as he could inside of his Robin suit, or they'd know for sure that he was Robin. As Tim's Drake, all he was technically allowed to do was run, dodge, and get lucky shots if any were thrown.

Tim made a loop in the thread he held, making sure he was able to tighten and tie off the thread in a single move. Training with Batman made little tricks like that common knowledge and easily executed procedures.

In a quick, but purposefully clumsy looking leap, he hopped on top of the booth Harley balanced on. She leaned back, humoring him, when he tried to kick her twice.

"You're playing with fire, now, kid," Joker said, casually, "You know Harl's, I kinda like his spunk. He's got _sauce,_ you know?"

"Sure," Harley said, ducking a sloppy punch towards her, "For a rich kid."

That was as much of a distraction as Tim would get, and quickly, precisely, and professionally, he swept her legs right from under her.

The Joker barked out a laugh as she fell onto her back. Tim looped the thread around her legs swiftly and pulled on it, tightening the knot into one that could big be undone.

Then he leapt over the table and ran.

Harley would need a knife to cut herself out of the knot he'd tied, and there had been none on the table. Tim was fortunate Joker did not intervene, else he'd _have_ to alert his brothers for help.

Now that Tim was running, though, Joker wouldn't chase him. If he had his gun, he'd of shot Tim for sure. But Tim had entertained him too much. He wouldn't waste his breath or his energy.

He'd put more thought into how he'd avoid Red Hood and Nightwing. Unless Batman was involved, Joker had little interest in the two and would rather avoid them entirely.

Tim had the same train of thought. Red Hood and Nightwing were tearing into the bar, grabbing random people and questioning them, flipping tables like crazy people. They were acting like Batman on a bad night.

Tim dove into the fray of still scurrying people and lost himself in their frenzy. He hid in the middle of them as a group climbed out the broken window Nightwing had created, and seeing that neither of his brothers had seen him, he ran off into the night.

* * *

"He's not here." Nightwing said, letting the skinny man he'd held by his foot go.

The bar owner hadn't even seen a kid in his bar. And if he had, he claimed he'd of tossed him out. He had 'standards' and 'a permit' and 'no one had anything on him' and blah blah blah. He was 'innocent' and 'would call the real cops if Nightwing and Red Hood didn't clear out'. He had 'rights'. He was a 'good guy'. He 'hadn't done anything wrong'.

Red Hood hadn't believed that, and shot him in the foot.

It shut his blabbering up, if anything. Though the screaming wasn't much better.

"Let's get out of here," Nightwing said, grabbing his bike which had lay discarded in the rubble that had once been a wall full of Hennessy and vodka.

Red Hood left through the window and got on his own bike.

"Anything, Alfred?" Nightwing asked, speeding out the bar and onto the street, "He wasn't at the bar."

"Headed down Marion St," Alfred responded, "Cameras are failing one by one in the storefronts."

"I can't cross reference the feed," joined Oracle, suddenly, "If this is Tim, he's doing a bang up job at not being seen."

Nightwing braked hard, letting Red Hood shoot ahead of him.

"What?" Red Hood asked, slowing down.

Nightwing shook his head to himself. Cameras failing one by one was obvious. Too obvious a move for Tim. If Tim wanted to hide, he'd of shutdown cameras at seemingly random places to hide his tracks.

"We're sure that's him?" Nightwing asked, "That's not really something he'd do."

"Neither is stabbing me," Red Hood tossed, "But whether it's him or not, we should investigate."

They were heroes first, after all.

"You go ahead," Nightwing said, "I don't think it's him. I'm gonna head this way and keep searching."

But family came before any job Dick or Nightwing could ever have. Be it in costume or uniform.

"I'll follow you, Hood," Oracle said, "I'll see if I can get something from the power grid."

"Let me know if you need me," Nightwing said, turning around and speeding off down the street and towards home.

He had a sneaky suspicion.

* * *

Climbing through his window, Tim couldn't wait to fall into bed. He'd rooftop hopped home, and the entire time, he'd felt paranoid and insecure. He had no mask, and anyone who saw him would be absolutely dumbfounded. You'd have to be an idiot to not connect the dots and find his secret identity.

But now, he was home, and everything would be better. He'd gotten away from Joker and Harley, and he doubted they suspected he was Robin. That sweep of the legs was risky, but he threw enough clumsy moves to hopefully throw them from his tracks.

He pulled the hat he'd stolen from Harley off, cringing as the bells rang and jingled. A hat was not a mask, but Tim hopped it might help hide his identity, were he spotted. Despite the fact that anyone could probably hear him coming from a block away.

Kicking the hat under his bed, he fell backwards onto his soft sheets. He knew he ought to put Jason's jacket back, but he was asleep before he even realized he was falling.

And then Tim was up, woken by some instinct he didn't remember sharpening.

He sat up and found himself staring into the mask of Nightwing.

His heart stopped.

"Where were you?" the eldest asked, and his voice was that forced calm that barely hid true anger and frustration.

" _Let's be honest with him…"_

"Here," Tim settled on.

"Here?" Nightwing asked, nodding his head as if he were confirming something to himself, "That's what you're gonna go with? That's your final answer?"

If he said yes, would that be as bad as he thought it would?

"I'll handle things from here," Alfred said, in the doorway suddenly.

His presence was a relief because Nightwing seemed ready to burst, and Tim was on the receiving end.

"Why don't you go and assist Red Hood," Alfred suggested, "He's dealing with a metahuman with electrical powers down on 30th. He won't admit he needs help, but he does."

Nightwing left through the window without another word, and Tim already knew this would not be the end of the matter. Nightwing may not have seen Tim in the bar, but he definitely knew Tim had been out against his orders.

He was less than pleased.

"Let's change your bandages," Alfred said, getting the kit from Tim's closet.

Tim felt the results of his cuts more whenever he moved a certain way, but he was ignoring it mostly. All the running and moving around had broken numerous scabs though, and as he removed his (Jason's) jacket, he saw now just how bad his bandages needed to be changed.

"You've been doing a lot of moving, master Timothy," Alfred said, pulling his desk chair over, "You're bleeding heavily."

Tim said nothing. Saying nothing to Alfred was always a win/lose decision. Often, saying nothing to Alfred was just as bad as speaking. He was a master of reading people, much like Dick, and he could read minds at the worst of times.

"Busy night?"

"No," Tim lied, wincing as Alfred pulling off a sticky bandage.

Alfred hummed, calmly, and his patience and unflustered attitude calmed Tim. Alfred wasn't pushing. He wasn't prying. He wasn't running on negative adrenaline, like Nightwing had been.

He was just here. Breathing. Working. Unbothered. It helped Tim take a calming breath. His short talk with Nightwing had his shoulders high and his muscles tensed.

It was most likely because he was worried. Through everything, Dick had been patient and understanding of Tim. He didn't lose his temper or snap. He didn't get angry at Tim. He carried Tim when he was sick, and slept in his room when he had nightmares. He always found a way to trust Tim. A reason to believe in him. A bright side to look at. A silver lining to find.

Tim had unrealistically believed that that side of Dick was never-ending. He believed Dick would never change and that Dick would always find the good in him. He'd always see Tim as the person Tim _wanted_ to be. _Strove_ to be.

Watching Nightwing earlier, though, gave him doubt. Doubt that Dick would always see the good in him. Doubt that Dick would never give up hope in him.

If Dick lost confidence in Tim, then who was Tim to deny that he was as disappointing as he knew he was? If Dick stopped believing, and trusting in Tim, then Tim really wasn't any good. He wasn't worth saving. He was nuisance, and a burden.

And if Dick felt that way, then Bruce had felt that way for a long time...

Alfred patted Tim's face gently with a tissue that came from who knew where. Tim looked up from the spot on the floor he'd lost himself in, and wiped his own face.

He hadn't realized he'd begun crying until now and he kicked himself for it. He kicked himself for thinking so hard and over analyzing a subject he usually just kicked to the back of his brain and pretended never crossed his mind. He hated emotions and feelings.

And he hated himself for always getting caught up in them.

He sighed, looking down at his bleeding arms, and for the millionth time, he wondered how everything ended up as it did.

How had he gotten to this point? How had he managed to go so long at odds with Bruce? How had he lost Dick's confidence? How did he manage to find himself inside on a night like it was, getting bandages changed that had been afflicted on him, by himself?

Why had he even done this to himself? What made him cut his arms and legs like he had? It was hard to remember. Everything past a few hours ago was hazy and memories from days ago was hard to recall.

"I… I think I did this to try and stop myself…" Tim muttered.

Alfred looked up at him, not at all startled by the seemingly random statement. He caught on quickly to the topic, though, and squinted.

"Stop yourself from what?"

"Doing something bad." Tim said, closing his eyes to think.

"I count this as _**very**_ bad, master Timothy." was Alfred's stern remark.

"I mean something _worse._ " Tim said, "I think I… I think I was… I don't know…"

"What could you have done that required you to incapacitate yourself?"

" _That's_ what I can't remember..." Tim said, his face twisting as Alfred peeled off more bandages. "I was so _angry_ when I did it. I was frustrated and… and _scared._ But I don't know of what, or why."

Alfred hummed, more to himself than to Tim, and applied a cooling salve to a particularly deep cut.

"Master Timothy," he said, "I think that once you find the answer to that, you will find the answer to many of your questions."

* * *

Dick left Tim in Alfred's care when he went to pick the youngest up from the airport.

Alfred left Tim in Jason's care when Alfred found he needed to go food shopping.

Jason left Tim in the care of the handcuffs he'd locked Tim in when he went to take a nap.

Jason wasn't anyone's first choice when it came to babysitting. Though honestly, if it were anyone besides Tim, he would totally _rock_ at babysitting. He could make all kinds of snacks, and kids _loved_ weapons. He had a whole closet full of them.

So maybe he wasn't a 'traditional' babysitter. But he'd still rock at it.

Dick, obviously, was a better choice, though. Annoyingly fun and safe as he was. Unfortunately, he had to pick the demon up a whole day earlier than he was supposed to. Damian had, apparently, attacked his guide, which turned out to be an old friend of Batman's. The guide had a broken femur and a concussion, and was unable to continue his journey. Without his guide, Damian had no choice but to return home.

Bruce would be _pissed_ to hear Damian hadn't finished his journey. Jason was looking forward to hearing _that_ dinner conversation.

Jason was enjoying the last of the quiet in the house, reclining on his bed, deep in thought about nothing in particular, when a loud _thump_ echoed down the halls. He sighed, rolling his eyes, and got to his feet.

He thought handcuffing the Replacement to his bed would keep him out of trouble. Apparently, he was wrong.

"You just couldn't lay still, could you?" Jason complained loudly, heading down the hall, "You just had to shut up and sleep. That was the jist of the instructions you had."

Jason went into Tim's room casually, but his heart sped up a beat when he saw the open window. He cursed under his breath as he pulled out the tranq dart Dick instructed him to use, in case Tim decided he'd pull another disappearing act. Jason ran to the window and was scanning the yard when the bathroom door opened and Tim emerged, massaging his wrists.

Tim paused when he saw Jason, tranq gun in hand, and furrowed his eyebrows.

Jason put the gun away, approaching Tim strongly.

"You heard me coming," Jason snapped, "You should have said something."

"What do I have to say to you?" Tim responded, walking around him, " _You_ handcuffed me to my bed. I had to use the bathroom and I'm not a prisoner. I don't have to give you a play by play of my moves."

"You wouldn't be treated like a prisoner if you didn't act like a psycho," Jason told him, "If you think I _want_ to be here, _wasting_ my time babysitting _you_ , then you're crazier than we thought."

"I'm _not_ crazy," he defended, "I'm fine."

Tim went to his window and shut it. He'd opened it before going into the bathroom, but the wind was so strong it had knocked his lamp onto the floor. He picked it up, placing it back on the table exactly where it had been before.

"If you're not crazy then why am I here? Why would I have to watch you if you were so 'fine'?"

Tim said nothing, going to his bookshelf and pulling the books off.

"You've got problems you don't even know you have," Jason said, putting his hands on his hips, "You're out running the streets at night in places you _don't_ have any business in, I want my jacket back, by the way, and you're giving Dick heart attack's like it's a hobby."

"Can you get out of my room?" Tim asked, tossing books onto the floor angrily, now, "I don't want to talk about this."

"Oh, now you don't wanna talk," Jason asked, walking over and leaning against the bookshelf, "Well, I don't care, cause now _I_ want to talk. Let's talk about that stuff you pulled last night. Let's talk about _why_ you're downtown smiling at cameras. Let's talk about _why_ you had those green contacts in-"

The mention of green eyes made Tim's head snapped to Jason so quick, Jason had to raise an eyebrow.

"Struck a nerve?" he asked, and suddenly, Tim looked panicked.

"Get out," he said again, and Jason stuck his hands in his pockets.

"You're not my boss. You're hardly even a teammate."

"Now _that's_ a _lie,_ " Tim spat, "And you know it."

"What _I_ know," Jason retorted, "Is that you haven't been Robin in a _week_. And everyday you're _not_ him, Damian just gets a little closer and closer to taking your spot."

"Jason, stop it-"

"What _I_ know, is that Dick was at odds with himself about leaving you here, because he's afraid he'll come home to find you _hanging_ from a ceiling fan somewhere _._ "

"Dick trusts me," Tim snapped, and it was clear that he was trying to convince himself almost as much as he tried to convince Jason.

"If he trusts you, why did he tell me to hit you with .5 mg of etomidate if you ran off?"

Tim said nothing, and Jason flinched internally. That was the lowest blow he'd hit so far. The kid looked up to Dick more than anyone. Telling him that the tranq gun was Dick's idea may have been a jerk move.

But, Jason was used to being a jerk.

"Take that back, Jason." Tim said quietly, and Jason pretended not to notice how glassy Tim's eyes had become, "He didn't say that."

Dick would lie right about now. But Jason shrugged, walking towards the door. He wouldn't lie, but maybe Tim had heard enough of the truth for one day.

"Ask him yourself. No one here trusts-"

Jason paused, a hand going to his neck. He pulled a dart and a long needle from his skin and whipped around to Tim.

"You little _bastard_ ," he slurred, before dropping to his knees.

Tim put the tranquilizer on his bookshelf, then turned his attention back to removing the books.

Jason fell to his face. When he woke up, he was going to _kill_ that kid.

* * *

"Tim?!" Dick exclaimed, stepping over Jason's body, "What did you do to him?"

Tim tossed the man the tranquilizer gun from on top of the shelf.

"Why would you tell him to tranquilize me?" Tim asked, quietly.

He hadn't been able to get passed the shock that Dick believed him past reasoning. Dick believed it was better to simply knock him out, rather than try and talk to him. Dick didn't think Tim could follow the simple order of staying home.

He may have had a point, though. Lately, Tim had been totally doing his own thing. But it wasn't his fault, though no one else knew that.

Dick sighed, leaning down and moving Jason to a more comfortable position.

"Timmy, let's start over," he said, going and sitting on the edge of Tim's bed, "Last night really got to me, okay? You don't understand how I felt when I saw you weren't home. When Jason brought you to me a few nights ago, and you were bleeding like you were… Tim you don't know what that _did_ to me. You don't know how scared I've been."

"You _lied_ to me," Tim said, shaking his head, "You told me you'd _always_ be there for me. That you'd _always_ trust me. Jason's right, no one in this house trusts me, anymore."

"Tim, I was _worried_ ," Dick exclaimed, "Didn't you hear me?"

"You're a _fraud_ ," Tim said, turning his attention to reorganising his closet, "A selfish fraud. You never trusted me or thought Bruce would ever talk to me again. You don't care about anyone but yourself."

"Where are you getting all of this from?" Dick asked, "Because I didn't say anything like that, Tim. And I wouldn't, because it's not true."

" _Can you trust the lies of a liar?"_

"A liars lie is true," Tim told the voice in his head, "So yes."

"What does _that_ mean?" Dick asked, and Tim froze before shaking his head.

He had to stop responding aloud.

"Look," Dick said, shaking his head as well, "Come on down to the cave. I'm sending Shadow and Red Hood out tonight, once Jason wakes up and gets himself together. Oracle'll keep watch and Alfred and I will assist in the cave. You can help if you want, but humor me, I really just want you close by. You can sleep on a cot, if you want."

Tim shrugged, closing his closet and taking a deep breath, "I haven't been any help out there, anyway."

When was the last time he donned his Robin suit? When was the last time he grappled off a building and freefell with no hesitation? When was the last time he truly felt like himself?

"You're _always_ a help." Dick told him.

"Like at the stakeout?" Tim asked, "Or the gala?"

"You made a mistake, that's all," Dick said, not missing a beat, "And you were very helpful at the gala."

Truth be told, Tim wanted to go out, too. There was always a chance that there'd be a fluke, and he'd do something right for a change.

But Dick told him no, so that was what Tim decided to accept. Down in the cave, he laid on one of the medical beds and closed his eyes, determined to simply sleep the rest of the day away.

Jason came down soon enough, and Dick had very forcefully instructed Jason to stay away from Tim. Damian turned into Shadow, and the two were gone within the hour.

Dick and Alfred typed away on the computer, relaying information, making sure Shadow stuck close to Red Hood, and leading the pair where they needed to be and go.

There was absolutely nothing funny about any of that, yet, Tim fell asleep with a bright smile on his face.

* * *

Tim jerked, his body tense and suddenly, he was shaking. He knew immediately that he wasn't in his room.

Instead of a comfy bed, cold room, and dark interior, Tim was outside, freezing, wet from falling rain, and still in his pajamas. No mask, so no stunts by Robin allowed. His breath came out in puffs that hung in the cold air and dissipated slowly.

Dingy, grimy, abandoned, buildings towered above him. Stray cats and dogs ran by him. A few bums, prostitutes, and hobos watched him from afar. Bars guarded the few storefront windows that weren't boarded up, and rats ran by, hissing and fighting with each other. It was all barely visible under the two dim and flickering lights charged with lighting the whole block, and failing.

Tim swallowed, his focus sharpening with every passing second, and he took a look down at his feet, which throbbed and ached. His feet were bleeding, his right one heavily. Clearly, he'd walked down to the area, and with no shoes on, the dirty streets of Gotham hadn't been good to him.

"Why do you keep taking me to these places?" Tim asked Junior, quietly.

It seemed that everytime he came out of a blackout or his sleep, he was downtown, in a grimy, dirty area.

Tim actually had no idea where he was, but still, he took painful, limping steps forward. When he found a more familiar street, he could make his way home. Hopefully, before Dick found out he was gone.

Inside the the most guarded cave, and secret hideout on the planet. Underground. Watched over by Dick Grayson, a cop/Nightwing, and Alfred, a veteran to the cause.

There was _no way_ Tim should have been jerked awake by the sound of a bottle breaking on the sidewalk and a cat hissing.

Tim should have been home, in the medical bay, asleep. Sneaking out of the cave was nearly impossible with Dick and Alfred present. It was one of the reasons he'd gone right to sleep. What were the chances of getting passed the two of _them_?

Slim, was the answer.

Tim hissed, stumbling and falling to the grimy street. He'd stepped on his foot in a bad way, underestimating his injury. In the dark, he ran his hand over his bloody foot, finding several large shards of glass sticking out of it.

He pulled the majority of the glass out, but a few were too embedded in his skin for him to pull out in the dark. He couldn't imagine walking so far with glass in his foot like it was.

He managed to make his way to the brighter of the two streetlights, and sat himself against the side of a building, where he could inspect his feet better. Shard by shard, he pulled glass out of his skin and dropped it in a pile beside him.

He took a deep breath when he finished, and looked down at his soiled clothes. Now, in the light, he could see they weren't just wet with water. Blood red stains ran down his t shirt and pants and coated his arms and hands, and as tightly as his bandages still held, he knew it wasn't his.

He reasoned that Junior was always pranking him. Always making him think something and making him think something totally different than was accurate.

Using the abandoned store behind him for support, he got to his feet painfully, and examined his reflection in the dirty, cracked, and broken storefront window.

He actually screamed when he saw himself. He tripped backwards over his feet and fell onto his back, where the rain pelted his face, making him blink it and the frightened tears that sprung up away, and wash down the sides of his face.

It was one thing for a hallucination or a reflection to show a version of you that wasn't real. But seeing a part of that and _knowing_ it was accurate was an entirely different story.

Whatever bloody adventure he'd just come from hadn't just ended up on his clothes. A bloody smile was drawn across his face sloppily, and now that Tim knew it was there, he felt it's dry cakiness and smelled it's rusted odor unmistakably.

He sat up quickly, and with his hands he scrubbed at his face, blindly hoping to rid himself of the 'smile'. This was the worst prank Junior had played on him yet.

A sound caught Tim's ear immediately, and before he even registered what it was, he got up and scurried into the street, where he could be spotted easier. The tiny puff of air that sounded as the grapple was shot out of the grappling gun would forever be burned in Tim's mind. The _clink_ of the metal hooks digging into something for strength only reassured Tim of his rescue. And since Shadow would report rather than come talk, and Red Hood would probably approach on his bike, that meant Dick had ventured from the cave.

The sensation was almost like being hit by a car. Suddenly, Tim was stories high in the sky, flying through the air at top speed, leaving the grimy little neighborhood behind.

Knowing he was already in deep trouble, Tim could do nothing but cling to his savior.

It wasn't unusual to see one of the bat-family swinging by with a pedestrian (or two). They were heroes, after all. They saved people. Moving so fast, no one would even know it was Tim Drake flying by, holding tight to Nightwing, who was expectantly, but uncharacteristically quiet.

The rain fell hard and Tim used it to his advantage. He wiped his face in the black of Nightwing's suit, hoping to wipe the 'smile' off before his brother saw it. The trip home seemed shorter than usual.

* * *

"What on _earth_ were you thinking?!" Nightwing yelled.

Tim said nothing, choosing instead to stare at his feet. Nightwing screaming was a good thing, he reasoned. It was when Nightwing held back and was silent that the problems really built and escalated. Yelling was releasing tension.

Tim just had to wait it out. When Nightwing tired himself out, he'd be more open to listening. More susceptible to believing Tim's lies. More understanding. Any lie Tim said now would be met with strong resistance, disbelief, and anger.

He just had to wait it out.

"Well?" Nightwing asked, his hands on his hips, "I told you to stay in _bed._ "

Nightwing was trying to force his hand. Trying to make him speak before either was in any position to trust and believe the other.

Panic built. His breathing hitched. How could Tim get out of this?

"I-I know…" Tim said quickly, "And I was. I mean, I _would have,_ but I n-needed to go out, though? I've been keeping up on the crime scanner and-"

"Bullshit." was Jason's reply over the mics, and Nightwing muted it.

" _Foul mouth."_

Shut up Junior.

"I was, Dick." Tim pleaded, and suddenly, his eyes were burning with the threat of tears, "I've been keeping watch…"

Tim's voice faded as he recollected the pitifulness in how his lie sounded. The sidekick of Batman _should_ have done better than _that._ Even Dick off his hype would see straight through that lie. Why would Tim go out looking for crime not dressed up?

" _Yeah, even I could do better than that."_

"Shut up." Tim whispered.

He wrapped his arms around himself as Nightwing got down on his knees in front of him. Pulling his mask off, Nightwing became Dick Grayson, and Dick Grayson held nothing but concern in his eyes. He looked tired. Like this was an argument they'd revisited often.

"Timmy," he said gently, "I need you to be honest with me right now. No more lies. _Please_."

Tim bit his lip hard, and he closed his eyes tight, pushing back the tears with everything in him. His whole body shook, and he blamed it on the cold of the cave and the wet from the rain.

"What were you doing out there?" Dick asked, "Why did you go with no suit, no gadgets, and no shoes? Why didn't you listen to me and stay home?"

"...I just needed air…" Tim whispered.

" _Cooorny!"_

This suddenly felt like an interrogation. Like he was a victim with a secret, and this secret he'd sworn to take to his grave.

"Timothy Jack Drake-Wayne." Alfred said firmly, adding the Wayne with purpose, and Tim winced, dipping his head.

" _Crap, he used our full name. Abandon ship! We're going dooown!"_

He'd never had his full name scolded by Alfred before. He'd heard of Jason getting the 'full name treatment', even Dick, but he'd never guess it'd ever happen to him. There was disappointment and anger in the man's voice, and Tim hated, hated, _hated_ that.

"Tim, just tell me the truth." Dick pleaded, "I swear to you I won't be angry. I just- what is that all over your face?"

" _What? Never seen a smile before?"_

Tim's eyes widened for a second. He'd forgotten about the 'smile'. Pulling his knees up quickly, Tim buried his face in them. Until he could leave for his room, he couldn't let Dick or Alfred see the remnants of the 'smile'. They'd think he was crazy for sure. They'd _know_ he was craz- _confused._ They'd know he was confused.

"Timothy, look up at me." Alfred demanded, firmly, "Look up and explain yourself."

"No... " Tim said, quietly and to his knees.

"No?" Dick asked, and Tim could almost _hear_ the raised eyebrow, "Why 'no'?"

"Just no."

"That's not good enough. Do you think I'll be angry?"

" ...no. I just… can't."

" _You're pretty good at words, you know that?"_

"But _why_?" Dick asked, aggravated suddenly, "Why, Tim? Why are you so depressed? What is making you so jumpy? What did Joker _do_ to you? The _second_ we got you back, we lost you. We've absolutely _lost_ you, Tim. You're _nothing_ like the Tim I know."

Tim tearfully tried to pull the only excuse up his sleeve, "My dad-"

"Would you _cut_ the _crap_ , Tim," Dick interrupted, "I know you don't care about your dad. Everyone does. You _never_ did. But forget him, Tim, because _we're_ you're family. _We_ care about you. And whatever we did to make you lose absolute trust in us, I apologize for. I'm sorry. Whatever _I_ did to make you feel like you couldn't come to me, I'm sorry for it. I'm _sorry_! But God, stop _punishing_ _ **me**_!"

"Please stop…" Tim said, gripping his hair.

He wasn't punishing Dick. He didn't mean to hurt or offend him. He _loved_ his brother. But this… whatever ' _this'_ was, was bigger than him. But at the same time, it was his business alone.

It was like space had suddenly gained mass and gravity had increased. It became so hard to to breathe that Tim gripped his chest, forcing himself to take every breath.

"I've been by your side from the start," Dick went on, Tim's struggle going unnoticed, "I've done all I could to make you feel at home."

" _He's lying, Tim. He doesn't care about us. He's an actor, remember?"_

Tim slowly put his knees down, and put his head between them. He was light headed and dizzy, and air seemed to evade him at the moment. Every breath was a wheeze that felt more like a choke.

"Dick, please…" Tim wheezed.

"-I've taught you all I know, Tim. No one is closer than you and I."

" _Wrong. Me and you are pretty close, I'd say. It's like we're the same person or something."_

Black spots filled Tim's vision and he closed his eyes. He wanted to sit up, but he didn't want anyone to see what the 'smile' might have turned into.

"...Dick, _help me…_ "

" _No, no, let me…"_

Tim gasped, his hand going to his throat. Instantly, and involuntarily, his hand closed around his neck and no matter what he did, he could not pry it loose without causing a scene. His eyes widened at the lack of control he had over his own body and he closed his eyes, willing his body to get itself back in order.

It was almost as if his body didn't want him to confide in Dick.

"How?" Dick snapped, in angry ignorance, "I can't help you if you don't trust or talk to me."

"He can't breathe." Alfred cut in, pushing Dick back and getting down in front of Tim. "Master Timothy, look up at me."

Tim shook his head strongly. He'd rather die.

"Get me a oxygen mask." Alfred ordered, "And a blanket from the infirmary."

" _Old guys pretty perceptive, isn't he?"_

Dick was gone and back in an instant, or so it felt. Alfred put the blanket over his shoulders, and the mask around his face and instantly Tim felt calmer.

He took deep breaths in the mask until the panic subsided and Junior's hold on him seemed to loosen. The yelling and the accusations and the attention had made him feel crazy. Targeted. It made him hyperventilate and panic and confused.

But now Alfred rubbed his back, telling him when to breathe, and Dick was a few feet away, his back to him, and everything seemed to slow back to reality.

Tim pulled the mask over his head after a few moments and set it aside. Standing, he took tentative and bloody steps towards his brother. Dick didn't move. Didn't turn around. Didn't ask if he were alright.

Tim could understand how confused Dick was probably at the moment. Tim had just had a grade A panic attack for probably the millionth time and it was brought on because he was continually doing things that didn't make any sense. As much as it hurt, Dick was right. Tim was not the same person that Dick had known.

He wasn't even the same person _he_ had known. Junior may have felt real, but he wasn't. He was the personification of Tim's _own_ dark thoughts. Every thought and action, to some degree, was brought on by himself.

How could Tim expect Dick, or anyone, to ignore that? How could he hope for them not to notice or get upset by a change in him like that?

"Dick, please don't hate me," Tim tried.

Dick spun around then, pulling him into a tight hug. He gripped Tim hair in a fist, and Tim didn't even care. He clung back to his brother with equal force, for the first time in what felt like ever.

"I'm not trying to _punish_ you," Tim muttered, "I'm trying to _protect_ you..."

"You don't have to protect me," Dick said, pulling back, " _I'm_ the big brother. _I'm_ supposed to protect _you_. Tim, I'm trying to help you. I'm on _your_ side. I always am. Just tell me what's the matter and we'll fix it together."

To tell, or not to tell. That was the question. So many missed chances did Tim skip over. So many perfect opportunities passed by him. So many chances to speak, and confide, and confess.

Tim was logical, or at least, he tried to be. Logically speaking, his mind was not very logical at the moment. Junior sometimes made facts seem like opinions and emotions seem like facts and evidence seem like logic. If Tim was being honest, he did not know which way was up.

He did not know who to trust or which voice was his and which was Junior's. Dick and Alfred had always been two people he could trust. They had always been by his side and willing to support and protect and guide him. He trusted those two.

Logic told him to stay quiet, but instinct told him to be honest. Maybe it was time he bypass what his brain said, for once.

"I blackout," Tim admitted cautiously, slowly testing the words out, "I blackout, and I wake up, and everything is different and changed and somehow I've screwed something up again. It… I can't control it. I can't control _him._ "

There. He'd said it. Or, some of it. Would Junior shoot Jason because of it? Would Dick be stabbed in his sleep because of it? Had Tim just made his biggest mistake so far?

"I'm calling Bruce," Dick said, looking to Alfred before standing up quickly. "He can't possibly know."

"Dick, no." Tim snapped, grabbing his arm. "You can't. I don't _want_ him to know."

"He _has_ to know, Timmy," Dick said, prying himself from Tim's death grip.

"Please Dick, no. He won't understand."

"He will, Timmy. He _has_ to know. He needs to come home."

"He'll kick me out," Tim said, his voice cracking, "If he knows I'm blacking out, it'll be just one more thing I've screwed up. I'll control it, I swear. I'll learn to control it. He won't hurt you. He won't hurt anyone, I swear."

"He?" Alfred asked.

"Tim, you don't honestly believe-"

"He doesn't care about me, Dick. He won't help."

"Tim…"

It had been all Tim could do not to cry. Not to display anymore weakness to his last remaining allies. Telling Dick and Alfred was one thing. Telling Bruce, for some reason, he hadn't foreseen. Just the thought of Bruce returning home because of him, returning home because Tim was 'sick'. To see that disappointment in his eyes….

It broke Tim. And as random as it might have seen, he couldn't hold back his emotions anymore and he found himself in Dick's arms as he cried his heart out.

 _This_ is what happened when he bypassed his brain. _This_ is what happened when he didn't listen to Junior. Now, his emotions were all over the place. Now, he had Bruce to deal with.

"You're so smart, Tim," Dick said, though, petting his hair, "You're _so_ , so smart. But you don't get it. You don't understand _people._ You just can't understand that Bruce cares for you in his own way."

What would Bruce do when he found out Tim was worse off than anyone had thought? What would Bruce do when he found Tim had no value in his life? Where do they send orphans with no value? How could he cope without being Robin? How could he cope without his family?

" _This is what you get for confiding in Dick. You deserved Bruce's anger and his rejection."_

"No." he told the illusion quietly.

Dick was only trying to help.

" _Then why bring Bruce into it?"_

The tears stopped and Tim pushed himself away from his brother. He couldn't let Junior control his thoughts. Dick and Alfred blurred to the back of his mind as he tried to reason with himself and weed out Junior's influence.

"Bruce can help," he justified, "Bruce _will_ help."

" _Or… Bruce will 'help' you onto the next bus to Arkham."_

"Stop it." he told himself firmly.

All of that negativity and hatred… that wasn't him. He didn't think like that. He'd always trusted Dick to the ends of the earth. He trusted him blindly, sometimes. If Dick said he needed to call Bruce, then it was because he truly believed it would help.

Why was Tim doubting him so strongly, so suddenly?

" _Because somebody has to be reasonable."_

" … I'm reasonable…"

" _You're weak."_

"No. Family makes you stronger."

" _I'm weak."_

"Stop it."

"Stop what?" Dick asked gently, coming around to stand beside him.

" _Go on, tell him you're hearing voices, too."_

"Dick…" Tim muttered, his arms wrapping around himself again.

Dick could obviously tell Tim was on the verge of closing himself off, and got on his knees to be more at eye level. Dick always got on his knees when he wanted fragile people to stay strong. It was his way of trying to lend younger people strength. Tim had seen the action countless times.

He wasn't sure if it helped him now, though.

" _Go on, say it. Say it so he can call Batman and the two of them can ship you off to the loony bin."_

"Dick… I… I think…"

"What is it, Tim?"

" _Go on._ _ **Tell him.**_ _Tell him the truth. Show him just how weak you are. Prove what they all think. Prove them right. Show them who you really are."_

"Tim? Tim, you okay?"

" _You hear voices. You black out. You lash out at your so called family. They already don't like you and you go and stab one of them. You nearly kill another in his sleep. You mess up and screw up. You get them shot and fail your missions. One more failure and you're kicked out! Your replacement is already lined up and willing, what are they even keeping you around for?_

 _You're useless."_

"Alfred! Alfred, come here!"

" _You're replaceable, Replacement."_

"What's happened?"

" _You're an outcast that will never belong."_

"I don't know… he was talking to himself, or me, I don't know. But he just… passed out."

" _Our end is coming. The only question is: how will we go out? Quietly? Or with a_ _ **bang**_ _?"_

"Take him to the infirmary. I'm bringing the other boys in."

" _Can you deal with not being Robin? Can you handle that hole in your life?"_

"I couldn't get through to Bruce."

" _Let chaos rule your thoughts. Let madness fuel your actions."_

"We'll worry about that later."

" _You will never amount to anything. You will never_ _ **be**_ _anything more than a burden and a disgrace. You blacken Robin's reputation and you tarnish the Drake name._

 _You will never be wanted."_

* * *

 **So that's that. Let me know how you guys are liking this. Believe it or not, we're closing in on the finale, but no spoilers! Just stay tuned.**

 **-TheForgottenName**


	17. Flashbacks

Keep up with me guys, there's a few point of view shifts, so stay vigilant.

Let us continue...

* * *

 **Robin came to slowly, but he found out quickly that he was secured tightly to a metal table. He tested the restraints around his ankles, neck, chest, and wrists, but saw that it was no use. He could not move.**

 **The room around him was pitch black, but there was a spotlight above him that allowed him to assess himself. His belt was gone, always the first thing villains took, but he still had his gloves on, which held a small arsenal in itself. He had not had his gloves before… a moment ago, they'd been gone but… he could not remember. And honestly, it did not matter. He had his gloves now, and that was great news.**

 **Though he was strapped down, he didn't appear to be visibly hurt anywhere. His feet were numb, though, and his muscles ached and screamed from not being used. Every breath felt raw, for some reason, and he took rasping breaths.**

 **Breathing… it hurt. He remembered faintly, a feeling of intense pressure in his chest. His lungs had been on fire and felt like they were collapsing. Lungs… it was a word he'd heard Joker talk about. He'd spoke about it a lot.**

 **What was wrong with his lungs?**

 **No, he needed to stay focused. Escape. He needed to escape. Get help.**

 **With a flick of his wrist, a pin in his glove was activated, and extended out from his pointer finger. With it, the locks in his wrist were undone in seconds, followed by all the others.**

 **It was strange to have the ability to move freely, which was how Robin knew a good while had passed. At least two weeks, he figured. But it seemed much longer than that.**

 **Seconds passed, and Robin simply listened. He waited to see if anyone was nearby, or if anyone might be coming his way.**

 **If he could have escaped before, he would have, which meant that up until that point, he'd been guarded and not left alone. Something was different. What had changed? Why was he left alone now? Was Batman here? Was rescue close?**

 **The hallways seemed silent, so Robin made his move. Or tried to. He fell to the floor clumsily the moment he'd tried to get up.**

 **He extended his estimate of time to three weeks.**

 **He knew he was so stiff and numb because he'd been tied down for so long, so he forced his muscles to cooperate. He used the table he'd been tied to as support, getting to his feet as quickly as he could.**

 **He crossed the dark room carefully, quietly pulling on the door to find it was, unsurprisingly locked. With the pin in his glove, he picked the lock from the inside and slowly swung it open.**

* * *

Tim jumped awake.

He'd had a flashback. A flashback of his kidnapping. It was the realist memory he had of what had happened, even though not much had actually happened.

But something was amiss. He was not in bed, which was where he was sure he'd last been. Instead, he was lying in the middle of his floor, on his back and… and there was screaming. Yelling. Someone… someone was calling him. Screaming his name and… and something unintelligible.

Tim could not make out the voice or the words, beside his name, but he rolled slowly into his stomach. He felt exhausted, and he could not catch his breath.

Something… about his lungs...?

Tim looked up to his door, where someone was still knocking and yelling, but his door was barricaded with his dresser and seemingly everything movable in his closet from his shoes to his hats.

Tim's eyebrows furrowed, and he looked down at himself suddenly. He wore jeans, and not his sweatpants. And instead of the red band tee he had on, he now wore a yellow shirt that read **I Survived Got-m.** No, _**Gotham.**_ It just looked like 'Got-m' because mustard covered the 'h' and 'a'.

"What in the world?" he asked himself, getting to his knees.

First off, Tim hated the color yellow. It was too bright, it washed him out and made him look paler. Second, he hated mustard. Especially yellow mustard. Dijon he could tolerate.

"Timothy, you open this door _now_!"

Tim looked up at his door. That was certainly Dick's voice. He recognized that sharp, distressed scream easily, now.

But he'd been asleep. At least, he thought he'd been. What had happened between then and now? Where did he get the souvenir shirt from? What had he eaten (and spilled on himself)? And why did he smell like… downtown? Food carts, fresh bread, cigarette smoke, and the smog of taxis and ubers coated his skin and hair and clothes.

"Timothy!"

Dick had moved on to calling him by his full name, so he must have been trying to get in for a good number of minutes. He'd of broken the door in if the dresser had not been there. And he'd certainly have climbed through the window if it… hadn't been boarded shut. With nails and everything.

Tim sprang to his feet. Dick was beyond pissed, and Tim had some explaining to do (lying to do), but first he had to get rid of the evidence.

The first to go was the clothes. His shirt and jeans were buried in his dirty clothes hamper, and he pulled on a new t-shirt and sweatpants. The ones he'd had on were nowhere to be found.

He was in his bathroom, scrubbing his skin at the sink with soap to try and get rid of the downtown smell when the sound of splintering wood made him freeze.

Dick had just beaten his way through the boarded up window and now glass and wood were probably strewn all over the freshly vacuumed carpet.

Tim held his breathe, frozen in place by panic. When Dick spotted him, Tim felt faint. The oldest would be _livid._

"I. Could. _Beat_. You." Dick spat, enunciating each word through gritted teeth, "Are you high, or something?"

"No," Tim said, but his voice came out as an inaudible whisper, so he shook his head hard.

Dick marched into the bathroom, grabbing Tim by his arm carefully. Then he furrowed his eyebrows, staring closer at Tim's arms, peeling back the bandages slightly.

"What're you _doing_?" he asked, and Tim shook his head slightly, not trusting his voice.

Dick turned his arms back and forth, then went on to look at the cuts on his legs. Tim examined himself. Dick was right to be dumbfounded. The cuts he'd given himself not long ago looked liked he'd done it a few _months_ ago. They weren't raised cuts anymore or even slightly open. They were dark scars now on the mend to fading.

It was miraculous healing that should have been impossible.

"Your burn from the gala is gone…" Dick mused, mostly to himself.

Tim had forgotten about the burn completely, himself. It felt like it never happened.

"You're wheezing," Dick stated, looking up at him.

Tim would not deny he was having trouble breathing. If he calmed down enough, he could mask that fact from Dick, though.

Dick stood, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Can you _please_ ," he began, "Explain _why_ your door and window are barricaded and bordered up?"

"Because I like to piss you off."

Tim's hands flew to his mouth. He hadn't said that, but it was certainly his own voice.

"What?" Dick asked, confused, and Tim shook his head.

"I didn't mean that," he tried, and Dick made a face.

"Didn't mean what?"

"That I wanted to piss you off."

"When did you say that?"

" _I'm saying it right now."_

"Tim, what's the matter?"

" _I want my yellow shirt back…"_

No, he didn't. And, he hadn't said anything. But… he had hadn't he? He'd heard the voice clear as day. Clear as his own. Clear as… clear as Junior's usually was.

Dick made sure the mirror in his bathroom had been fixed, but Tim had yet to look in it, afraid of what he might see. He looked now, though, and sure enough, Junior was his reflection. He hadn't seen the illusion in a while, though he were still clearly present.

The clown in the mirror winked at him, and Tim looked back at Dick, who was watching him intently.

" _He's looking at us like we're crazy."_

"You're upset with me," Tim said, matter of fact, ignoring the war raging in his head.

After what happened the night before- confiding in Dick and Alfred, explaining his blackouts, hinting at Junior- Tim thought Dick would be incredibly more understanding than he was. Right about now, Dick _should_ have been fretting over him. Asking if he were alright. Asking what he remembered. How he felt before the blackout. How he felt now.

For Dick to be angry right now was suspicious.

"Of course I'm upset," Dick said, unwrapping more bandages, "You run off last night with no warning, now you're barricading the room like a war's coming. I'm supposed to be watching you, you know. I'm the oldest, so you and Jason and Damian are under my care. You don't make that an easy job, Tim."

"But what about everything I said last night," Tim said, careful how he worded his sentences, "Doesn't that make anything… clearer?"

"The only clear thing I see is that you're nearly healed, and that's borderline impossible."

"So you don't remember our talk last night?" Tim asked, and Dick sighed, annoyed.

"Tim, we _had_ no talk last night. And you can pretend like you were in your room last night all you want, I know you left. I'm a detective, too."

Tim shook head. He _remembered_ talking to Dick and Alfred. Going out and Nightwing bringing him back. He _confided_ in them. He _confessed._ Why didn't Dick remember?

"Dick, I _did_ leave," Tim said, pulling away from the man, "I left, but you came and got me. We spoke in the cave, remember? We talked. You sent Red Hood and Shadow out-"

"How could I have sent Damian out?" Dick asked, "Damian is in the Alps right now with Alfred. They'll be back any minute now."

Damian and Alfred was still in the Alps?

"Sounds like someone is looooooosing it…"

Junior's voice rang out clearer than ever. Tim said nothing though, and neither did Dick. Which meant Tim could hear Junior, but Dick couldn't, which was… good. Confusing, but manageable.

"Let's get you back to bed," Dick said, pulling him out the bathroom.

Tim could actually go for a nap at the moment. He was exhausted, for no reason. He hadn't done anything… well, technically he had. He'd gone downtown, though he had no memory of it. Why he'd gone downtown was an even bigger mystery.

Junior had gotten him a tacky souvenir and something to eat. But he'd cost Tim what looked to be the last bit of trust Dick had in him.

Tim climbed into bed and Dick began breaking down the barricade. He pushed the dresser back where it had been or, close to it. No, actually it was nowhere near where it had been before.

"I'll put everything back," Tim said, "You don't have to."

"You need to be resting," Dick said, grabbing a handful of shoes and taking them to Tim's closet, "You can fix everything back to how you like it later."

The perfectly organized books from his bookshelf was being put back in no order, and the sight of it was painful. Tim grimaced, lying down and focused on his breathing.

Dick meant well, but disorder could not be tolerated. Tim would fix everything the moment Dick left.

* * *

 **Robin closed the door behind himself and then took off down the hall. He scanned the walls and ceilings as he went. He looked for cameras and traces of tracers. Running down the hallway was far too open for him. Far too exposed. He needed a vent. A air shaft. Anything to climb through that wasn't literally in the middle of the hall.**

 **He slowed down a bit tweaking his plan when he saw a door labeled 'Security'.**

 **A waste of time or a lifesaver, this detour could cost him his freedom or grant it to him. Red Hood would focus on escape. Nightwing always wanted answers.**

 **Usually, Nightwing was right, so Robin went into the security room quietly. It, too, was empty, but the ten monitors on the wall were on and working. All but one of them.**

 **The clearly working, but password protected video feed was the one Robin was interested in. All the other cameras showed empty rooms.**

 **Besides, hacking was probably Robin's best ability. Computers were his thing. This was easy. It** _ **should**_ **have been easy, anyway. But seconds passed by and he found his brain slow to decide what to do first.**

 **His fingers twitched and he bounced on his toes before deciding he'd just jump in. And then his fingers were flying across the keyboard laid out in front of him and firewalls began to fall.**

 **His brain had been slow to begin, but Robin was back in his element, and before long the last camera was unlocked, showing the Joker and Harley Quinn in what appeared to be a once bland cafeteria that had been converted into a Joker-fied lounge area.**

 **The colors green and purple and red and black were overpowering. But it didn't matter. Joker and Harley were occupied arguing with each other about something, and that meant now was the perfect time to escape.** **While he had access to electronics, Robin sent out a distress signal to the batcave. Oracle would pick it up immediately, and in case Robin didn't escape, at least someone would be coming to save him.**

 **Robin stood to leave, but gave one last look to the monitors. Besides Harley and Joker, the building seemed empty, which was not Joker's style. He always had** _ **some**_ **henchmen around to either keep Batman busy while he escaped, or just as muscle to wield around for fun.**

 **Besides, Robin had been sure he'd seen others around… at least, he thought he did.**

 **But he was getting distracted, and that wasn't helpful. He fleed the room and took off back down the open and exposed hallway.**

 **He sighed a bit of relief when he nearly passed a broken elevator shaft. The doors to the elevator was gone and the space had been tightly boarded up with old, rotten wooden boards. The space in front of it was crowded with boxes and what looked like broken machinery and weapons. Clearly, no one had used the elevator for any purposes in probably decades.**

 **But that was even better for Robin. It meant no one would think to look for him there.**

 **Running up to the area, he began a slow climb over the boxes and piles of refuse. His body screamed in protest at the activity. For weeks his body had been abused and kept in singular positions. His muscles ached from not being stretched and his arms and legs needed to adjust to carrying his weight again.**

 **Regardless, he made decent time getting to the actual elevator. His smaller frame allowed him to slip through a loose board easily, and once he was inside the elevator and out of any lines of sight he felt like he could finally breathe, despite the fact that the air in the elevator was stale and cold and still.**

 **The cables in elevators were thick and by far one of the easiest things a person could climb. They could be slick from oils and grease sometimes, but old ones such as these were usually covered in enough dirt and dust to counter that.**

 **Flicking his wrist, Robin activated the suction in his gloves. His fingertips and palms immediately took grasp to the wall, and Robin began making way up. The suction in his gloves was just strong enough to support his weight, so Robin knew he had to be careful. The suction wasn't meant for long climbs or to hold him for long. It was simply there as a precaution, and Robin used it now as a source of comfort.**

 **Though he felt achy and weak, the constant movement of climbing awoke his unused limbs and each climb and pull felt a little more comfortable than the last.**

 **But then it happened. The dreaded moment he'd been anticipating.**

 **Red flashed below and an alarm blared as awareness was spread about his escape. Hopefully, everyone would spread out and away from the elevator and no one would think to check. But that was all wishful thinking, and Robin did not rely on wishful thinking.**

 **He needed to make his own luck and get himself out of the situation.**

* * *

"Stop it, Jason, he doesn't understand!"

The yell came from Dick, and Tim sat straight up in bed.

"You _always_ stick up for him," Damian said, "It's always _him_ first, _then_ the rest of us."

Apparently Damian and Alfred were back.

"I'm not gonna _kill_ him," Jason pushed, "I just want to teach him a little lesson. You shelter him, Dick, and that's not doing him any good in the business we're invested in. _You're_ the reason his kidnapping was probably so traumatic."

Alfred's hushed voice entered the conversation, and the argument continued away from Tim's door and out of earshot. Whatever Tim had done this time would be pardoned, thanks to Alfred. With Damian and Jason against him, there was only so much Dick could do on his own.

Alfred was _always_ the end all, be all.

There was no evidence to suggest Tim had left the room, so he couldn't have done too much damage. Instead of fretting over it, he laid back down, and pulled the blankets up over his shoulders.

He was tired and freezing, but he felt feverish. His skin burned, as if his heart was pumping lava through his veins. He thought to call out and let Dick know, but he knew the oldest would be in to check on him eventually, so he could save his breath.

" _Dick hates you, so why am I always waiting for_ _ **him**_ _to save me?"_

Tim ignored that comment easily. He was more upset with the ever changing points of view Junior used, rather than the message itself. You, I, me, us. Junior definitely had trouble disassociating himself and Tim.

* * *

 **The building was pretty old, so Robin did not obsess over whether there were motion detectors in the elevator. But, he was concerned about heat detectors. Some could see through walls, and knowing the Joker, he would not settle for a heat detector that couldn't.**

 **Robin needed to get out of the elevator and onto the streets as soon as possible. Then, he could find a street camera, or break a store window to set off an alarm. Anything to catch Oracles eye. She would send help his way, be it the family or simply the batmobile.**

 **The top of the elevator shaft had one exit, which was boarded shut. Robin kicked through easily and a single hallway later, he found himself outside.**

 **It was dark, and cold, and what Robin has believed to be a building, was actually an old oil rig. It was a dumb place to set up camp, but genius if you wanted to avoid, say, Batman's attention. Oil riggers worked odd hours, and even the abandoned buildings could go into use at any time, so power was always supplied to it, and no one would bat an eye I'd the building suddenly came to life at two in the morning.**

 **Robin was on the very top of the rig, and he walked across it to get a better look at his surroundings. Black, churning water raged beneath him, sending cold air shooting into his face. It sounded violent and particularly angry, which made him take a step backwards.**

 **It was a long drop down, and Robin judged quickly that the jump was survivable, but just barely so.**

 **The alarms that sounded behind and around him grew deafening for a moment as a door opened, letting the sound escape without barricades. Harley's hyenas yipped and laughed, their claws** _ **clinking**_ **on the metal tiles of the rigs roof. Harley yelled encouragements to them, and Robin bounced on his toes, his mind reeling.**

 **Looking over his shoulders, he could already hear the large dogs annoying yells and panting as they ran his way. Robin was in no condition to fight them, though he could. But with the dogs came Harley and eventually, Joker and his henchmen, and that was a fight he just couldn't win at the moment.**

 **It was at the last second that Robin turned around. He counted to three, closed his eyes, and he jumped.**

* * *

Damian wiped his forehead as he made his way towards the treadmills. After running the training course six times, very _nearly_ beating Red Hood's high score once, he called it quits and was ready to wind down with a good long run.

When his father returned, he would be secretly impressed that Damian had done twice what he was assigned to do.

Upon nearing the workout machines, though, a depressive-looking, tightly huddled figure sat on the floor in what appeared to be an extremely uncomfortable position. The figure blocked Damian's path to his favorite treadmill and Damian inwardly groaned at having to speak to the man.

"Why are you crying, Grayson?" Damian asked, his hands on his hips as he watched Dick.

"I'm not crying," Dick said, sitting up, "I'm thinking. About all of us."

"How unusual." Damian said sarcastically, walking around Dick to get on the treadmill.

"Mostly about you, actually." Dick said, standing up and blocking Damian; his way of forcing a conversation, "You and Tim."

"I'm honored." Damian said, trying to get around Dick, but unsuccessfully.

Grayson was, by far, the more tolerable of the young men in the house. But, he had boundary issues. He never knew when to leave people alone, and his idea of fun was always loud, and most likely, stupid. He talked _so much,_ and he laughed _so often._ Even at his own jokes. How could someone whose world revolved around crime be so happy all of the time?

The man was a mystery.

"Damian," Dick sighed, his tone suggesting a long, dreadful conversation, "this thing you've got against Tim, it _can't_ go on."

Damian rolled his eyes. If he had a silver penny for every time he'd heard that, he'd of melted them down and had twenty swords by now. He was beyond fed up with people, mainly Grayson, telling him that Drake needed his family right now, and that Drake was going through something serious, and that Drake needed everyone to cut him some slack.

Well, newsflash to Drake: he had no family, his father was dead. 'Serious' was the world ending. Drake's kidnapping was a pebble thrown in a lake; a small disturbance that could be easily ignored and moved past. And if that tiny kidnapping incident required Drake to fall apart at the seams, then there was no way he'd survive training with the League of Assassins, because mercy and 'slack' was not a thing with them.

"Grayson, I'm trying to work out, now," Damian said.

"It's unacceptable, Damian, and it has to stop," Dick pushed, "He's your _brother_."

"Grayson, we've been through this a million-"

"No, Damian, listen." Dick said, getting down to Damian's height, "You've got to stop this hate you have of Tim. You _and_ Jason. He _is_ your brother. If we don't look after him and love him, who will?"

Damian's face had to of shown that he wasn't as concerned as Dick probably wanted him to be, and he sighed.

"His father is _dead,_ Damian." Dick continued, "He's dead and Tim hasn't cried about it once. He doesn't have anyone but us, now, and most of us are treating him like dirt."

"Drake doesn't-"

"I don't want to hear anymore about whether you think he belongs or not." Dick snapped, "Tim could beat you easily in whatever challenge I put you two up against, so don't even say he doesn't deserve anything he doesn't have, because he deserves more. But this isn't even about that, Damian. Tim _needs_ us right now. He's _always_ needed us, but it's important, critical even, right now."

It wasn't Damian's fault that he was raised as he was. And honestly, Dick hadn't seen it as a huge problem until recently. Dick, like everyone, knew that burn of losing your parent. Whether Tim had been close with his dad or not, Jack Drake had still been Tim's father. And that was enough to make Tim grieve his loss.

And normally, Dick knew Tim would have. Or at least should have. But he wasn't. He wasn't reacting to it at all, as far as Dick could see, and that was odd.

And though Damian knew very little better, it was time he learned to show some respect.

"I know you weren't raised to feel like we do," Dick said, "But you're not a robot. The assassins didn't _take_ your emotions away. You're human. You're a _hero,_ Damian. You help people. But the way you and Jason are with him… and now with Bruce… I can't let this go on. I wouldn't if it happened to you, and I wouldn't if it happened to Jason. Something has to be done."

Damian smirked, "Whatever punishment you have in mind, Grayson, I can handle it. I was trained to endure."

Because to Damian, everything started with training.

"I'm not trying to punish you, Damian." Dick said, "I'm not going to. But I can't let this go on, either. If you guys can't get along… then I've got to leave."

"You?" Damian asked, his face confused, suddenly.

"I've got to get him away from all of this," Dick sighed, running a hand through his hair, "I've got to take him away from here. He can't take anymore fighting. I can see that in him. There's too much stress here and he needs a peaceful environment, for a change. If he and I have to get an apartment away from you guys to find that, then fine."

Damian could pretend all he wanted, but Dick saw straight through him, and Dick knew Damian did not want him _or_ Tim to leave. Maybe he was jealous, or maybe he really did believe Tim didn't belong, but like all of the bat-family, no matter what happened, they always preferred to be together. To be in each others company. To know that everyone in their little circle was safe.

"I'm not asking you to change overnight," Dick continued, "I know you can't and I don't expect you to. I just want you to _try,_ Damian. Really try to be nice. To not fight. To let him in the conversation sometimes. To make him feel like he belongs here, because he does."

"No promises, Grayson." Damian said, clearly annoyed and done with the conversation, "But I will consider your proposal and concerns."

Dick smiled at him, relieved.

"That's a start."

* * *

Tim woke with a jerk, hearing his door open, and was shocked to see Damian enter the room with a tray of food. He didn't want to blow things out of proportion, so he didn't react. Besides, he wasn't sure he trusted Damian enough to eat food brought by him.

"Grayson's asleep." Damian explained, putting the tray down on the table. "He hasn't slept in days. Pennyworth said we should leave him."

Tim hummed.

"He's in the cave," Damian continued, "Up on a balance beam. I think it's idiotic to leave him there."

"He won't fall." Tim murmured, staring at his sheets.

"I'm aware," Damian said, and Tim could actually _hear_ him resist snapping the comment.

It was almost as if Damian was attempting… to be _nice_. That pissed Tim off more than anything. He hated phony people, and he could see straight through Damian's act.

Damian turned to leave after that, before hesitating, and finally pausing. Seemingly against his better judgement, he approached Tim and sat in the chair by the bed.

"Why would you do that to yourself?" he asked, straightforward and with no more hesitation. "Cut yourself, I mean. I know you were aware of your survival chances. You knew you would live. So why hurt yourself to such an extent?"

Tim was silent, choosing now to stare at the hot meal on the table. It looked like some kind of soup, crackers and water. A light meal that was probably just what he needed at the moment. Alfred was good at knowing what was needed at practically all moments. He could look in your eyes and know you needed iron.

"Drake." Damian said, waiting for his answer.

"I don't know, okay?" Tim snapped. "I don't remember."

"I call your bluff."

"Call all you want, but I still don't remember."

"You're smarter than that."

"Damian, I don't care what you or anyone _thinks_ I am, but-"

"I call that bluff, too. We all know you care about approval more than anyone in this house."

Tim squinted his eyes, glaring at Damian who seemed less than affected.

"I wouldn't expect you to understand," Tim hissed, "You're hardly human as it is."

"Clarify." Damian said simply, his head tilted in confusion.

"You were grown in an artificial womb," Tim told him, "You're just a mesh of infused and stolen DNA. You're more science experiment than person so how could _you_ understand _me_?"

Damian said nothing. That was not a comeback he'd ever heard before and Tim usually didn't allow himself to get sucked into such arguments. It left Damian at a loss for words for a few long seconds before he took a deep breath and forced himself to let it go.

"I didn't seek to fight with you, Drake." Damian said suddenly, "I promised Grayson I wouldn't. I simply sought answers."

"Well I don't have any." Tim snapped.

"Perhaps not yet." Damian said, standing now, "But you will. It is not in your nature to leave a question unanswered."

With that, Damian left, and Tim hated him more than ever suddenly. Mostly, because he was right. Tim _hated_ unanswered questions, and now, he had a serious one to think about.

* * *

When Tim woke, it felt like he was in the twilight zone. It was the feeling right before that hard jump you did between wakefulness and sleep. It was Deja Vu. It was vertigo. It was scary bad and confusing emotion and feeling rolled into one.

Tim held his mouth, fearing vomit, as he sat up slowly. He could feel his head lolling and he widened his eyes constantly, trying to keep from what felt like passing out.

Where was Alfred when he needed him?

" _Go find the Joker…"_ whispered his own voice.

Tim turned to his right, where the sound seemed to of come from, then he turned the other way when he heard it again.

" _...to the funhouse…"_

" _...let's go find Joker… "_

" _...let's go find..."_

" _...funhouse… funhouse… funhouse…"_

" _...Joker…"_

" _...let's go to the funhouse…"_

The whispers were increasing in multitude and they echoed quietly from seemingly everywhere. There was something haunting and off-putting about the absent sounding voices. The suggestions they made were clear as day ridiculous and impossible and not ever going to happen.

Tim dry heaved, his stomach contracting, and he leaned forward to get out of bed and make his way to his bathroom.

* * *

There was no warning, no jerk, no jump, no anything. But out of nowhere, Tim was falling down the stairs in the foyer. He stopped himself only two steps from the bottom, and pulled himself into a sitting position. The world was spinning, and nothing was on the angle it was supposed to be.

" _... go see the Joker…"_

" _... to the funhouse…"_

" _...turn right at the edge of the driveway… "_

The voices echoed unanimously, and Tim put his splitting head down between his legs.

"Yo, kid," came a voice, startling Tim, "why'd you fall down the steps?"

Because falling down the stairs was usually a conscious decision.

Tim ignored Jason, rocking himself back and forth. He was trying with every inch of will to push the voices out and away. He didn't like what they were suggesting, and he didn't remember leaving his room. He just wanted to go back to bed and sleep.

"Kid?" Jason asked again, "Kid?"

Tim's name was not 'Kid'.

" _...your name is not kid… "_

" _...Junior…"_

" _...Joker Junior..."_

" _...not Kid…"_

" _... your name… "_

No, no, he wasn't kid. He wasn't Junior, either.

* * *

"Whoa, whoa, Tim," came Dick's voice, "Slow down. Make a right at the driveway to go where?"

Dick had his hands on Tim's shoulders, thankfully, because when Tim jolted back to reality this time, his legs gave out immediately. Dick caught him easily and picked him up, bridal style.

Tim was outside, and it did not surprise him to find he lacked the memories that lead him there. He must of blanked sometime on the stairs and his odd, mindless behavior had to have been zombie enough to get Jason to alert Dick.

"It's freeing out there," Dick muttered, walking back into the house, where Alfred waited with a thick blanket.

"Both of you boys will catch your death," Alfred remarked.

Dick put Tim on the couch in the nearest living room and wrapped him tightly in the blanket. Tim breathed in the smell of a warm fireplace and smoke. The blanket must of come from the family room, where Alfred kept it going pretty much all winter long, and the smell embedded itself into the blanket.

Alfred called Dick quietly, and Dick ruffled Tim's hair before leaving to speak to him.

Tim put his feet up onto the couch and laid down. He closed his eyes, wishing the spinning room would cease and the whispering voices in his head stopped suggesting he go back outside. It was cold and wet out there.

On a normal day, he'd put himself in a window by a fire with a blanket, and program some code that combatted the response time to tripped alarms or extend the cloaking device in the cowls or something of equal interest. Or maybe he'd take a look in his closet for his genetically enhanced sunblock. He'd recently discovered that he'd done more modifying than he'd thought to it, and the sunblock actually protected against acid and radiation.

Where the heck _was_ that spray?

Tim opened his eyes when he heard Damian enter the room. The boy was clearly trying to hold in the enormous attitude he had as he bent by the fireplace and created a roaring fire. Ambiance lighting and warmth flooded the room, sucking the dreariness out, and Damian didn't even seem to care as he turned on his heels and left without a word.

"You alright, buddy?" Dick asked, returning back into the room and leaning on the edge of the couch, "It's too cold outside for be without a coat. Or shoes."

"I'm sick," Tim told him simply, digging himself deeper into his blanket.

What did it matter if Tim explained that leaving the house was against his will? What difference would it make if he told Dick voices and blackouts had put him outside without his consent?

He'd probably wake the next morning and find the conversation hadn't happened, somehow. Junior made sure Tim's confessions and pleas for help were deafened.

"You're not warm," Dick said, feeling his forehead, "For the first time since ever, right?"

Tim groaned at Dick's cheerfulness. He wasn't in the mood.

"You just try and get some rest," Dick said, standing, "Jason and I've got a mission to go on. Alfred's coming down to the cave to help, but Damian'll be right here if you need something, okay?"

Tim grunted in response. He had no plans on moving from the couch. But if Junior had anything to say about the matter, then it was probably better for Damian if the boy didn't do as well a job as Dick hoped.

"Damian, keep a _good_ eye on him," Dick said when Damian came back into the room.

"Whatever Grayson, I'm not an idiot."

"Try and take it easy," Dick said, ruffling Tim's hair once more, before running off.

At only quarter to four, for Dick and Jason to run off must of meant something serious was happening. If Tim was well, he'd be right behind them.

"This is not voluntary," Damian announced loudly, coming further into the room with a thick, dusty book on probably something factual and not at all intended for the eyes of an eleven year old, "If we're both quiet, though, we should have no problems coexisting for a few hours."

Tim had hardly heard Damian. He was falling asleep before the boy even sat in front of the fire.

* * *

 _When Tim woke, he blinked rapidly. He was under an intense spotlight, it's brightness making the darkness around him seem darker and more ominous. He looked down at his bound wrists and legs, finding to his chagrin, that he was tied to a chair. A wooden one with a creaky back right leg and broken right arm, to be exact. He'd been tied to enough chairs to be pretty good at getting out of them._

 _Yet, no matter how he moved, the chair held strong, which should have been impossible…_

" _You're awake. Good."_

"I'm not awake." _Tim said to the air._

 _There_ _was no way he was awake. Not pulling on his binds like he was. The broken right leg and arm meant he'd probably been trying to get out of the binds much longer than he remembered. He must of fallen over a view times, and someone just kept picking him up._

" _That's even better."_

"How is that better?"

" _Think about your life right now," the dramatic voice of Junior slurred, "Now, really reflect. Is life getting you down? Feeling depressed? Blue?_ _ **Feel**_ _it. How does it feel?"_

"I don't feel anything." _Tim said, nonchalant._

" _Exactly," the voice replied, mirth in his voice, "In here, pain doesn't exist. Hurt is nonexistent. There are no feelings; just pure, intelligent, organized thoughts. Isn't this better than the wild and complex real world?"_

 _Tim tried to be annoyed, just to test that totally off the wall claim… but it was no use. Junior was right. He didn't feel anything. He just… was. And that made it so easy to think, and to just finally breathe. There was nothing to stop him from finally organizing his life. No dizziness to throw him. No fear of hurting his family to distract him._

" _Better, isn't it?"_

"Sure, but what's the catch?"

" _Catch?"_

"If this place was so wonderful, I wouldn't be tied to a chair."

" _Oh, that. That's for our protection."_

"Our protection?"

" _You hurt me and I'll have to hurt you. If I die, you die, too. And if we die, everything ends."_

"Why should I want to kill you?"

" _Because you don't understand yet."_

"What is there to understand?"

" _That chaos is good."_

 _If this is what chaos felt like, then maybe it_ _ **wasn't**_ _so bad…_

" _Let me take over, Tim. Let me go and deal with that messy world, and you stay here, where you can think and it's quiet."_

"I'm not stupid," _Tim threw,_ "I know you'll try and keep me locked up in here. I'll **never** give you complete control of my body."

" _I'm not asking for complete control. I'm just asking for a few hours. Our body's sleeping, anyway. What damage can I do if you're asleep?"_

 _What damage_ _ **could**_ _Junior do if he were asleep? If the answer was none, then Junior wouldn't go through any trouble to get control. There was_ _ **something**_ _the illusion wanted, Tim just wasn't sure what. But with Damian nearby, and Alfred just in the cave, Junior wasn't totally without a babysitter. And it was only for a few hours…_

 _The silence and the clarity Tim felt was addicting. Having a violent illusion in your mind was tiring and Tim was exhausted being on guard 24/7. To not feel emotion, or feeling, or frustration, or fear, or exhaustion, or_ _ **anything**_ _, was the drug Tim had been chasing all his life. No overwhelming need to clean or fix things or let OCD rule over him. No pressure to be the best. No doubt that he was good enough. No guilt over his lack of emotion for his parents, and no sorrow over never being showered in their love._

 _This simple, blank place was exactly the break from life Tim wanted._ _He_ _ **needed.**_

" _A show of good measure," Junior said, and suddenly, the binds on Tim loosened and he was free to leave the chair._

 _Standing, Tim looked around at the blank world. The spotlight faded away and the world lightened, revealing that it was chalk full of chemistry sets, computers, a training station, electronics, a few drones, and even a few comic books._

" _This is your world, Tim," Junior said, "You think it, and it'll appear. You control everything."_

 _This was officially the single, most amazing place Tim had ever imagined, and he'd be an idiot to leave it so soon._

 _Junior couldn't do anything of major consequences while Tim's body was asleep. He deserved this small break, didn't he?_

 _What was a few hours?_

* * *

Junior sat up for the first time in his life.

Having no previous knowledge to draw from, he decided air smelled of laughter personified. And warmth from the roaring fire was the feeling you got when you knew an airplane was taking off with a ticking bomb onboard.

Life was different when you could feel.

Swinging his feet onto the floor, Junior stood up and stretched loudly, Tarzan yelling because the stretch felt so good.

" _Please_ refrain from doing that," came an irritated voice, and Junior spotted the little troll that was charged with watching him.

Junior knew his name was Damian, but Little Nymph seemed like a _much_ better fit, so that was what Junior decided to refer to him as.

"Where are you going?" the Little Nymph asked, and Junior smiled at him easily.

"Bathroom."

Little Nymph narrowed his eyes and cautiously returned to his book. Junior skipped up the stairs. He knew the layout of the house like he knew his own face. _Both_ of his faces.

The excuse to use that bathroom was, _shockingly_ , false. Junior had never had a bladder before. He wouldn't know if he had to use the bathroom if he _actually_ had to use the bathroom.

No, Junior had plans to get done, and not much time to do them. Getting out and onto the streets was initially easy enough, but Junior needed something to really distract Little Nymph. The bathroom excuse was only good for a few minutes. His absence for any length of time was being clocked by the midget. A good distraction would give Junior more time and room to breathe with.

Was it luck or preparation that Tim knew pretty much everything about every person and thing he'd ever encountered? Did the coffee shop guy that never made the coffee strong enough really have a sick grandmother that was planning to write him off the will because of his drinking habit, or was that just speculation? Junior didn't care.

Jason's room was _astonishingly_ the easiest room the get down to the lawn without suspicion. Another one of Tim's _very_ useful, but random, facts.

After borrowing one of Jason's jackets, Junior made his temporarily escape in search of a few items before climbing back inside the window, the welcome smell of Wayne Manor greeting him kindly. He skipped back down the stairs and went straight to the living room, where the Little Nymph was standing and waiting for his return.

He seemed relieved to see Junior, a first, and sat back down to return to his book.

Down in the street, Junior had been a bit at odds with himself about what to use to distract the boy. Hitting him upside the head would have been ideal, but if Father Time, Alfred's new identity, came up for any reason, seeing the Little Nymph knocked out would raise a bit of suspicion and ruin everything. What did 11 year old boys like, though? Tim had been into chemistry and Java programming at that age, but Junior also knew Tim had been a weird child.

Junior had narrowed down the expansive possibilities to two. One generic option, and one personalized speculation. If that didn't work, Junior was sure the Little Nymph would fit in the foyer closet.

"Here," Junior said putting the Game Boy he'd stolen beside him, "Figure this out."

The Little Nymph hardly looked at the game beside him before going back to his book.

"You're the tech wiz, Drake," he said, "You figure it out."

To plan b!

Junior pulled the tiny creature out from inside of the jacket he'd donned. He set it at the Little Nymph's feet and simply waited.

"What is that?" the Little Nymph asked, his eyebrow raised.

"It's a cat."

"Obviously."

"I just found him outside," Junior said lightly, "Thought maybe you'd want to pet him, or something. _Her,_ sorry. It's a her."

"How'd you get outside?" Little Nymph asked, his tone suspicious, and Junior changed the subject quickly.

"I'm running down to the cave for a moment. Be right back."

As Junior walked down the hall, he heard Little Nymph ask the cat what it was looking at, and decided the coast was definitely clear.

* * *

Dick trudged down the hall behind Jason, holding his nose. Jason was drenched in raw sewage sludge and reeked of their latest quest. Dick had showered in the cave, but Jason wanted to shower then take a bath, which meant he had to go to his room.

Alfred had been in the cave the whole time, but Dick trusted Damian had kept a good eye on Tim. Tim had seemed so confused when Dick last saw him. Like he had no idea where he was or how he got to places. He was like a little old man.

The fire still blazed in the living room, and hearing a chuckle waft out, Dick was instantly relieved. He leaned against the doorway, furrowing his eyebrows slightly when he saw the cat Damian played with.

"Grayson," Damian said, looking up at him and smiling, "Grayson, watch this. Look at her legs."

Dick smiled watching Damian hold a string up and making the cat jump for it. Damian actually laughed when the cat grabbed the string and rolled on it's back. Dick was pretty sure he'd never seen the youngest so happy.

"I didn't even know you liked cats," Dick said, pushing off the wall.

"I don't," Damian said, sobering quickly, "I just… admire their physique and agility."

"Oh, yeah?"

Damian ignored him.

Dick approached the couch, leaning over it, fully expecting to see Tim awake and silently watching Damian in that knowing, fly on the wall, way that he did. A reluctantly caring older brother, as Alfred tended to put it.

Dick moved the heavy blanket aside, revealing only a pillow. His stomach sank, and he stood up straight, his eyes scanning the room quickly for some hidden clue, or better yet, Tim himself.

"Wheres Tim?" Dick asked.

"What?" was Damian's half absent, half dumbfounded response.

"Where's Tim, Damian?"

"He was just…"

"You had _one_ job, Damian," Dick whined, going and looking out the window.

Alfred was not going to be okay with this.

* * *

And scene.

Let me guys know how we're liking so far. Like I said, getting over the hill right about now in the scheme of things.

Stay cool in this heat wave,

Cheers!


	18. Call Me Jay

**So, I haven't died. Still alive, promise, things have just been really chaotic for me. Still are, but I push through, as we do, and I've gotten this out. The next two chapters are technically done as well, but this is a little long, so I'll be uploading them not today, but VERY soon.**

 **Maybe even tomorrow. I don't know. We'll see.**

 **Your reviews are really what made me start writing again, so please, don't undestinate your voices, feedback, and opinions. Because they really do matter.**

 **Anyway, I won't hold you up.**

 **Read on, readers**.

* * *

A rocket ship had never moved slower, Bruce was sure of it. The taxi that sped Bruce home could stand to put on a few more mph as well. Patience had certainly been one of the last things Bruce had conquered in his training. Right now, he was less anxious, more irritated.

He just needed to be home.

Twenty-nine whole hours ago, Dick had sent a broken, staticky transmission. What Bruce could make out, and Martian Manhunter could sense, there was definitely a situation at home that needed his attention. The intergalactic trial wasn't over, but upon hearing that news, Batman must have given Superman a look that must have been unforgettable, because the Kryptonian had immediately offered to give him a boost in the rocket.

If the planet fell into some kind of slavery clause or was blown to bits because Batman and Superman, two main totems on the pole, we're gone for a few hours, then so be it. Bruce's children needed him.

"Here we are, sir," the taxi driver said, pulling up to the manor stairs, "Home sweet home."

Something like that.

Bruce tossed a hundred dollar bill in the front seat, then jet out the car door. He was at the top of the stairs before the taxi even made it back down the driveway. Reaching for the door, he paused when it swung open on it's own.

Dick ran into him, his coat was only on one arm and he was wrapping his scarf around his neck with his free hand.

"Bruce?" he asked, startled, "Wait… What're you doing back? It hasn't even been a week. I didn't think you got my message since you didn't resp-"

"Where are we going?" Bruce said, leading the way back down the stairs and joining Dick's mission immediately, "Whats happened?"

Dick took a deep breath, about to explain the long story, but the sound of a window opening made them both look up.

"Dick!" Jason called, leaning out the window, "He's up here."

Dick sighed so loud Bruce knew the boy had been in full hysteria mode, as he was prone to fall into from time to time.

"Hey, old man," Jason greeted casually, leaning on his window sill, "Run out of diapers?"

Bruce rolled his eyes, making his way back up the stairs. Apparently, there was no emergency.

"We've got a lot to talk about," Bruce said, and Dick nodded in agreement.

"You have no idea."

* * *

"Wait, so what's _Trio Country_?" Dick asked, climbing the stairs behind Bruce.

"It's a play on the word _Jeo Jang Chi_ , which is 'controller' in Korean."

"I'm guessing Korea plays a role in all of this?"

"The drug in Tim's system-"

"The one we've been chasing for over a month, now-"

"It originated in Korea, running under the company alias-"

"Let me guess, a company called _Trio Country_."

"Correct."

"So Joker and Harley buy drugs from Korea," Dick mused, "And injects Tim with them? Guess that's where the 'Trio' joke comes in. But why? What exactly does the drug do?"

"Don't know," Bruce deadpanned, rounding the corner towards Jason's room, " _Trio Country_ hides it's shady business better than anyone I've ever seen. It's taken this long just for me to confirm what I already knew."

"So what now?"

Bruce hushed Dick as he reached to open the bedroom door. For the second time that night, he didn't get that chance.

Jason flew through the door and Bruce jumped back just barely avoiding the impact.

"I'm gonna kill him," Jason announced, yanking his arm away from Dick, who was trying to help him to his feet, "I'm gonna kill him slowly, too."

Jason's forewarning announcement was his only show of mercy on his now laughing opponent.

The cracked and hysterical laugh that came from inside the room sent an unexpected shiver down Bruce's spine. He stepped over the broken door purposefully, and was immediately taken aback by the young man that faced him.

It was like observing a stranger. That laughing, hunched over boy with messy hair, disheveled clothes, and green eyes was a being Bruce had never seen before.

Tim wiped his mouth where a little line of blood trickled. Jason must of hit first. How that had lead to Tim somehow throwing the man through the door, Bruce did not know, but he was certainly on his way to figuring it out.

"Tim," Bruce addressed, "Take a deep breath."

"Glad you're back on earth, Brucey," Tim smiled, and everything about it was unsettling, "You're just in time for the the quake."

"What does that mean?" Dick asked, and like an answer, the ground rumbled and shook.

The walls trembled and the house screamed in protest at the dramatic movement. The floors cried out in retaliation to the quaking and the sound of vases and hanging photos falling was deafened by Alfred's cries of despair over them. He knew the worth and sentimental value of every piece of decor in the house.

What felt to be an earthquake was over in seconds.

"That's conveniently trippy," Dick said, looking around the now slightly askew room.

"What did you do?" Bruce asked, turning to Tim.

"Me?" Tim asked, a snarky smile on his face, "Why me? I'm standing here just like you are."

"Tim, you're not well," Dick tried, "We know you did something. Tell us, so we can try and fix it."

Tin put his hands behind his back and shook his head like he were watching some unavoidable natural disaster on the news.

"See, that's the problem with you guys," he said, dramatically sighing and rolling his eyes, "You're always trying to _fix_ something. Ever stop and think that maybe, nothing's broken? Maybe Gotham is fine just the way it is. Maybe _I'm_ fine like _I_ am. _Better_ , even. There's a certain... _le soulagement..._ to not giving a rat's ass about other people's opinions, you know?"

Dick and Bruce shared a look, but Jason barked out a laugh, amused.

"You know, I kind of like him like thi-"

"Shut up, Jason," Dick snapped.

"Tim, what've you done?" Bruce asked.

Tim only shook his head, a broadening smile on his face.

"So it begins," he said, before collapsing onto the floor unconscious.

* * *

Dick stared at Bruce's back as they descended the cave stairs. He was torn on his dominant feeling. Was it nostalgia of following so closely behind Bruce towards the cave that preoccupied his thoughts, or was it worry for his younger brothers' sanity that reigned supreme? True, everyone knew Tim was not well. Since the moment they found him after his kidnapping, they'd been trying to hunt down the roots of his issues. Searching blindly for answers was always a pain in the butt, though. Especially when it came to someone you loved.

Down in the cave, very clearly, a bomb had gone off. Dust hadn't settled, glass was strewn all over the floor, and equipment lay half functioning. Luckily, mostly everything in the cave was fireproof, but there seemed to be a few permanent scorch marks around.

"Find a rebreather," Bruce said, covering his mouth and nose with his shirt, "I'll go in first. You secure the area."

Clearly, Tim had done this himself. Bruce was afraid someone else was hiding around in the thick smoke, which was bogus. His 'job' of securing the area was meaningless. Dick was too tired to argue with the man about his demeaning job, though. He was an adult with his own way to do things. He did not _have_ to take orders from the Dark Knight's alter ego anymore.

For timing sake, though, he simply did as he was told. Everyone was in a rush to get back to Tim.

It was only Dick and Bruce on the case to figure out what Tim had done, Red Hood and Shadow had changed upstairs and had gone out on patrol, both of them working to keep Gotham as orderly as possible. Gotham didn't care whether the bat-family went through it's own personal crisis or not, so regular appearances was necessary.

But that meant Tim was upstairs alone with Alfred.

Dick found, most likely Damian's, rebreather on the floor by the broken test tubes that used to sit on top of the investigation table. He put it on before he began his needlessly thorough search for intruders.

"It's clear," Dick called, an eye roll in his voice, when he finished.

Instead of a response, the cave hummed loudly as Bruce enabled the vents and air purifiers. In no time, the smoke had cleared and had been replaced by fresh, breathable air.

With the smoke gone, the cave was not nearly as destroyed as it had sounded. In fact, the only thing that seemed to be destroyed was the investigation table. It held plenty of chemicals designed to, obviously, help with investigations. Certain mixtures could bring up fingerprints, diagnose illnesses, and even identify people using their DNA. The combination of chemicals, though, in addition to heat, was very much capable of smoking the entire cave.

"Distraction?" Dick asked, looking at the pile of rubble.

Bruce didn't have a chance to respond. The computer screen flashed green, a low-key call for help, and Bruce motioned for Dick to investigate.

"It's Damian," Dick announced, typing on the screen, "Apparently, he's disturbed a drug exchange that has eight times too many thugs. He's hiding in an empty dumpster."

Bruce shook his head.

"Where's Jason?"

"Halfway across town," Dick said, already removing his shirt to put on his suit, "Damian is closer to us."

Bruce nodded, turning to head up the stairs.

"Smack him on the head," was Bruce's last instruction.

Damian was always rushing into situations head first. He never took the time to do the necessary investigations. It was something Bruce was trying to drill into his head.

Tim was still unconscious when Bruce reached the living room. Alfred had brought him down, apparently, and was now in the kitchen, whipping up a snack for when the boys eventually came home.

"Trouble?" Bruce asked, and Alfred shook his head.

"Not a peep out of him."

"I'm taking him downstairs," Bruce said, grabbing the boy from the couch, "It's safer."

"For the vases, too," Alfred nodded, "We lost two _very_ nice ones in that explosion."

Leave it to Alfred to mourn the furniture.

Tim seemed to hardly breathe as Bruce took him down the winding stairs. It was not the first time he'd carried a son, Tim nonetheless, down these stairs, but right now felt different. Weighty. Uncertain. And Bruce hated it. He'd known leaving the planet now wasn't a good idea, but looking back now, it seemed absolutely idiotic on his part.

How could he leave Tim like he had? He was lucky Dick and everyone had been so diligently attentive to the boy, otherwise, who knew what state the manor would be in now.

Tim stirred a bit as Bruce reached the bottom of the stairs. Tim's eyelids fluttered open slowly, and green eyes looked around in wonder and surprise.

Bruce raised an eyebrow.

* * *

Nightwing landed on the edge of the roof, scaling the empty warehouse quickly and peaking in the building through a dirty window. On that particular floor, twenty… thirty men walked around, guns at the ready and flashlights being shined in every corner. Shadow must of really shaken them up.

And why shouldn't he? Usually, his presence meant Batman's presence.

Nightwing tapped his earpiece, climbing down another flight.

"I'm outside," Nightwing said, looking through another dirty window, "Where are you?"

"Second floor," Shadow said, "Are you alone?"

"He's always alone," came Red Hood's voice, and Nightwing looked up to see the man land on the roof.

"How'd you get here so fast?" Nightwing asked, and Red Hood shrugged.

"I put my tracer on a prostitute."

"Classy."

Red Hood scaled the building too, and together, he and Nightwing climbed in a dirty window on the third floor. Nightwing always preferred to have the high ground, even if the ground was actually a rickety, rotted old floor. Coming through the roof or down the stairs was a much more advantageous move than climbing something. Gravity was on their side that way.

"Met a mugger," Red Hood said, pulling out one of his guns, "Said his name was Richard."

"Oh, great," Nightwing said sarcastically, pulling his eskrima sticks out, "Sure you had fun with that one."

"The dick jokes were endless."

"I'm sure you handled it like an adult."

Red Hood shot the floor in four distinctive places and in moments, the entire third floor gave in. Red Hood was lost in the dust that was thrown, but Nightwing rode a plank down through the level, and managed to land on at least three men.

Before the dust even settled, lights flashed and thunderous echoes rang as fire was opened on the two.

"So, I told the man," Red Hood yelled from across the room, casually, "I told him: if you think I'm gonna let you dick around with people-"

"Coooorny!" Nightwing yelled, diving behind an old dusty desk for cover, " _I've_ heard better ones than _that_."

"Yeah, well, this dude was totally over it."

"Shoulda kicked him right in the neck."

"I did better than that," Red Hood said, jumping out from wherever he'd dove for cover, returning fire.

"Let me guess…"

"I kicked him right in the balls."

"You're so childish, Red."

Nightwing jumped from behind the desk, tossing one of his eskrima sticks at a man who had his gun trained on Red Hood. Doing a front flip to avoid a steady stream of gunshots, Nightwing followed through with a cartwheel that ended up putting him in the path of three large men. It didn't take much more than a roundhouse kick and a few jabs to get them horizontal.

"You're calling _me_ childish?" Red Hood asked, shooting up at a light and sending glass and a heavy fixture raining down and taking out four other guys.

"Stop arguing," came Shadow's voice.

Shadow emerged from an adjacent room, his outfit torn a bit, but him seeming none worse for wear.

"Weren't you in a trashcan twenty seconds ago?" Red Hood asked, and Nightwing shook his head.

"Let's get the GCPD on the way," Nightwing said, "Then let's finish clearing this place. It's huge."

"I used that joke on Richard, too," Red Hood said, and Nightwing couldn't help but smile.

This was almost like old times. If Robin was there, throwing sarcastic remarks, being three steps ahead of everyone, and critiquing the arguments, nothing would be out of the ordinary. Nothing would be wrong in the world. The cops would have long been on their way. A quarter of the men would already be knocked out. The drug ring leader would already be identified, and Robin would wordlessly assist wherever he was needed as always.

This old, rusty building that stood only on a wing and a prayer would be a playground to Robin. So many ways to bring it down. So many structurally unsound places and weak points to exploit. Robin fought with his brain on most days, and Nightwing didn't doubt the boy would have a way to take everyone out in one motion by now.

Of course no night was the same without Robin. Of course Nightwing missed hearing all the ways he could be faster, more effective, safer, smarter. Robin could nag with the best of them, but he was always right. And in his own quiet way, he yelled how much the people around him meant to him. He screamed how much he cared, and in the most important of ways: with his actions.

"Look out!" came Shadow's voice, and Nightwing _oomph-ed,_ as Red Hood tackled him out of the way of a firing squad.

The move sent Red Hood and Nightwing through the floor again and they fell down to the first floor, leaving Shadow alone on the second.

"Stay in the game," Red Hood hissed at him, jumping up onto a crate and back onto the second floor where gunshots rang freely.

Nightwing stood, shaking his head. Joking around and goofing with his brothers was fine and all, but getting lost in his thoughts was dangerous. He could never forget about the job at hand. Zoning out could mean certain death, not just for him, but for his family. And he _knew_ that.

With Robin on his mind, though, it was hard to focus on anything, really.

But he had too. Robin was his younger brother, and Robin needed him. But Nightwing had two other younger brothers that needed him, too, and Nightwing would not let them down.

He grappled back up to the second floor, ready to end the fight.

* * *

Dick would not be okay with having Tim tied up, but Bruce was very nearly out of options. It was this, or knocking him out, and Bruce had a few things to learn from the boy before he could move on in his investigation. Very clearly, a traumatic change had gone through the boy within the past day. Tim was more than acting strange, it was almost as if he were a different person entirely.

The random, quirky oddities that he'd been showing signs of previously were noted and meditated on, but this new Tim was on a whole new level. This was an amazing and drastic change that no drug could accomplish on it's own.

Once in the cave, Bruce had changed into his Batman suit to do a better analysis on Tim. Right now, he turned on the speaker to record Tim's voice to try and sense any changes.

"Tim, listen to me." Bruce said, looking up at him, "You're not tied up here because we don't trust you. You're tied up because we're afraid you're going to hurt yourself, or try and hurt someone else."

Tim raised an eyebrow, and those green eyes unsettled Bruce until he willed it not to. This was his _son,_ and right now, his son needed his help. Right now, his son needed him to be a father.

"Tim," he went on, "do you understand that we all care about you?"

"Oh, I understand," Tim said sarcastically and nonchalant, his voice light and joking, "I understand that you think I'm an idiot. You must, because only an idiot would listen to your lies."

"I'm not lying, Tim. I'm sorry. I treated you wrong. I ignored you, and that was selfish. But you and I are both professionals. We don't let our personal matters interfere with our jobs. Right now I need you to tap into that. I need you to be strong, and see sense for a moment."

Jason would snort, Alfred would shake his head, and Dick would groan at Bruce's awkward and failed attempt at an heartfelt apology. Somehow, he still turned it around and made it about work. He'd said sorry, but even he noticed the lack of emotional input. He was as sincere and genuine as it got, but what did that mean without the emotion that brought it all on?

Tim must have sensed it too, because Bruce's response was a glob of spit to his face, which triggered several involuntarily muscles, and earned Tim a firm backhand to his face.

Tim's head snapped to the side and Bruce immediately and immensely regretted that… until Tim began chuckling.

Tim looked back up at Bruce with a bloody smile, and a slow laugh built into a full out hysterical fit. Bruce backed up as Tim's laughter grew until the boy was in tears and was heaving breathlessly. This young man, he was insane. He was unstable, disturbed. He was _nothing_ like the boy Bruce raised, and a tiny, pessimistic voice in his head wondered if he'd ever see the bright young man he'd grown to love again.

But the laughter died suddenly, and Tim closed his eyes tightly and began blinking rapidly, as if the sun were shining in them. Suddenly, steel blue eyes stared back into Bruce's.

"Bruce?" Tim asked, slowly and quietly, "When did you get… _why_ am I tied up?"

Bruce was speechless for once and his face must have been shocked, because suddenly Tim looked frightened, like he'd realized something earth shattering and devastating.

"Bruce, what are you doing?" came Dick's startled and upset outburst.

He'd just pulled into the cave and was yelling before he even removed his helmet.

"He's not some kind of criminal," Dick said, getting off his bike and going straight to Tim to cut the ropes.

Tim fell weakly into his arms, and Dick sat on the floor with him.

"Bruce…" Tim said, looking up at him, defeated and tired sounding, "I don't know… I can't _control_ …"

That encounter had been too much for Bruce. He pulled his cowl up and turned on his heels, marching towards the computer.

That was _not_ schizophrenia. It was not some multiple personality disorder, either. No, Tim was going through physical, and seemingly painful transformations at random, and that was something Bruce had never seen before. It garnered a lot of research.

"Bruce…" came Tim's voice, and Batman turned around when he felt the boy pull on his cape.

'Pull on' was an understatement, as it seemed like Tim used him more for support than for emotional reasons. The boy was dizzy, swaying slightly back and forth as he gripped Batman's cape to steady himself.

Dick watched on, still on the ground where he'd been holding Tim.

"Bruce, I'm sorry." Tim confessed, his voice already breaking, "I don't understand it, either, but… but I need _help._ I need _your_ help, because I'm _terrified_ of the things I've been doing. Of things I've been _thinking,_ and I'm trying, I swear to you I'm trying to control it, but I… I just _can't…_ and I-"

Tim was interrupted when Batman moved. The whole time Tim had been talking, he'd been leaning more and more into Batman's cape, not even aware his legs were giving out on him. At first, Batman thought the boy was just emotionally drained, embarrassed, most likely, and probably exhausted from whatever he was fighting with. But as Tim spoke, it became clear that he was physically having trouble standing, and was using him like a human crutch. Which had been concerning, but hadn't necessarily 'bothered' him. If he hadn't been emotionally retarded, he'd of hugged Tim right then and there.

Tim had shifted, and it had looked as if he might fall. When Batman shifted to catch him, though, Tim had really lost his balance and fell to the ground.

Batman gave Dick a look, and the amount of distraught in the eldest's face said he hadn't seen that Batman hadn't meant to push Tim on the ground. Tim looked up at him with watery and tired eyes, and it was clear that he, too, believed Batman had purposefully thrown him on the floor.

Tim was tough, and that little fall would not hurt him in the slightest. But the idea behind it hurt worse than any attack a villain could have done to him. All Batman had to do was apologize, just say he hadn't meant to let time fall, explain he'd moved to _catch_ Tim, ironically. But too many beats passed in the silence.

True to his alter-ego name, Dick stood and swooped down on Tim like some kind of bird. He picked his brother up and took him to the medical bay, where he could lay down and sleep, which he seemed quite ready to do.

Batman pulled his cowl back down and went to the computer. Speaking honestly was not his strong point. Everyone that knew him well knew that. Lying to cameras and reporters, he could do. But when it came to the ones he loved, he always fell short of expectations and he'd grown accustomed to the habit of saying nothing, because often, it was better than saying the wrong thing.

But this here- beating the keys on the keyboard as he pulled up Tim's medical files to cross reference- _this_ was how he showed love. With his actions, not his words, which, by axiom, was worth more anyway.

Dick didn't always see it that way. He didn't right now. Bruce could tell by the footsteps Dick took, approaching him.

Bruce said nothing when Dick reached around him and shut the computer off. His information was easy to retrieve, so Bruce didn't let that action fester into anything more than annoyance.

Dick was emotional. He saw things through cracked rose colored glasses. The world was a horrible, angry place, but Dick persevered in trying to stay positive. He thrived on interaction, which subsequently, involved speaking.

If Dick needed to speak, Bruce would oblige him. Something he didn't do often.

He turned around to face Dick, and before he could calmly question him, Dick was already in his face, whispering angrily, to keep from waking Tim.

"You're not going to keep hurting him like this," he spewed.

"You think I _want_ to hurt him?" Bruce asked, his tone matching Dick's with the implication.

"Well, you're not doing a great job at helping," Dick said, standing back up to full height, "He was hurt before any of this happened, and _you_ haven't done a single thing to ease his pain."

"Dick, you know better," Bruce said, his eyebrows furrowed.

Dick knew good and well that no one worked harder on the case of Tim than Bruce. He'd scoured factories, sewers, and distant continents looking for answers. Looking for the drug that had changed his son's life so drastically. All the people he'd interrogated. All the bones he'd smashed. All the dead ends he'd hit.

This had been a never ending puzzle. A _frustrating_ maze with no exit. Just how Joker wanted it to be. Dick _knew_ that. Bruce kept him up-to date on is investigations. Most times, Dick _helped_ with them.

"He needs more than answers," Dick clarified, "He needs more than a cure to… to _whatever_ this is. Bruce, he needed _you_. He told you as much and you pushed him on the floor!"

"I didn't push him. He fell."

"You're _Batman,_ and you want me to believe you couldn't catch him?"

Dick would be surprised what Bruce actually _couldn't_ do. It was a lot more than the man thought. But Bruce didn't argue this because all in all, Dick was right. Tim had needed more than answers and a cure (which, ironically, he didn't even have). Tim had needed support. He'd needed attention. The lack of affection he'd felt had left him wide open for attack and this influence had taken advantage of that.

Bruce didn't respond to Dick's question. Instead, he leaned to the side, looking around Dick, and at the young man that had approached without a word or sound or any evidence.

Tim stood still, his face blank, no recognition of anything registering on his face.

"Tim," Dick acknowledged, turning to see what Bruce had been staring at, "Come on, you should be resting."

"Don't touch him," Bruce said, when Dick reached for his younger brother.

"Bruce-"

"Dick, don't touch him-"

Bruce stood when Dick shook his head, grabbing Tim by his arm and leading him back towards the cots.

"He needs rest, Bruce."

"Dick, bring him back."

"Just let him rest, please. He's _exhausted_."

Of all his children, Tim definitely followed orders the best. Dick, on the other hand, had been the trailblazer for doing whatever the heck he wanted, when he wanted.

"Richard Grayson," Bruce said in his best 'dad voice', "You bring him back here right now."

The 'full name treatment' held a lot of weight to it. Dick turned back to look at Bruce, hesitantly, and carefully, he pulled a nonresponsive Tim by his arm back towards Bruce.

Bruce thought Tim seemed out of it and non responsive, but seeing Tim up close revealed that that he was anything but. His right eye twitched slightly. His nostrils flared. His pupils were shrunken, making the fading of his blue eyes that much more apparent.

"He's changing," Bruce said, grabbing Tim's chin, "You can tell by his eyes."

When it came to family, Dick had a habit of hyper focussing on the big picture. Yes, Tim was sick. Yes, he needed rest. But Dick often missed the details when it came to those he loved. Tim was sweating. He was shaking. He was swaying where he stood.

The details told an entirely different story than the big picture.

"Tie him back," Bruce instructed.

"But Bruce-"

"Now, Dick."

For once, Dick did as he was told. And not a moment too soon. The moment the knot was tied, Tim looked up at his brother with green eyes and an unsettling smile.

Dick backed away from him instantly.

"Tim?" Dick asked, and the boy rolled his eyes.

"Ew, that bore-fest? God, no. I'm the cool one."

Bruce noticed Tim's shaking stopped. He seemed much more in control of himself now, though this version of Tim was not the Tim they'd grown to love. Whatever side of Tim this was, he was apparently stronger and had better control. He left the other side of himself, the side Bruce knew too well, weak and fragile and shaky. Bruce wondered how much energy this side of Tim took from the other side. How much effort did it take to try and resist letting this side of Tim out?

"Where's Tim?" Dick asked, and Tim smiled a little harder.

" _I'm_ Tim."

"You're not," Dick insisted, kneeling down to the boy, "You're not him at all."

"I'm a better version of him, then. A freer version. A version that doesn't care what anyone thinks and _embraces_ the chaos in the world."

"Give us the _real_ Tim," Dick demanded, "We don't want _you_."

"I'm _so_ much more fun, though," Tim insisted, laughing, but Dick's stern face didn't crack.

"We don't want you," Dick repeated, and Tim's bright smile faltered slightly.

"Fine," he said, indignant, "Be that way. You're _all_ on punishment. Tim, too."

Tim's body went limp, then, and Dick stood up, his face disturbed.

Bruce got one good takeaway from that encounter.

He didn't believe that there were _two_ halves of Tim. One docile, thoughtful, and weakened, the other strong, verbal, and aggressive. Truth be told, Tim was neither of those things to any extreme measure. He was typically quiet and withdrawn, but when he felt the need to, he spoke as loud as any of Bruce's sons. He also could fight his way out of any situation, and he did not feel above getting his hands dirty.

This new side of Tim, the side that 'embraced chaos', it was not a side Bruce was unfamiliar to.

When Tim was younger and first became Robin, he was far more vocal and unruly. He was wild as any young teenage boy, and his stunts had been almost as bad as his puns. _Puke Face_ had been one of Bruce's most clench worthy comebacks.

As Tim got older, appropriately, he'd calmed down. And then he'd calmed down some more. And then some more, whereas it got to the point that Tim could be in a room and no one would know it. Not even Bruce. Bruce had found the new-found silence and fellow brooder to be refreshing. Dick had felt that Tim was depressed. Either way, the quiet Tim was the boy they'd become accustomed to.

But that side of Tim, the side this new Tim mimicked, had never left him. That unruly, wild side, that still loved bad puns and did stunts that gave heart attacks and embraced the chaos that was Gotham- somewhere deep down, Tim was still like that. Tim had simply learned to mask it. He'd learned to push it away and focus on whatever he needed to at the moment.

This chaotic-loving Tim was not new at all. And neither was the quiet Tim they'd always known.

Nor the other.

Tim did not have an extreme, dominant personality amongst his versions. He was trapped between hostility and defensiveness, and that made three versions of Tim, not two. The real Tim was caught somewhere in between them.

They probably hadn't seen or spoken to the real Tim in weeks…

"Say something," Dick said to him, suddenly.

"Say what?"

"Say something encouraging," Dick pleaded, "I know that face, but… tell me it's not as bad as it seems. That there's hope."

Dick was not usually this doubtful. Not ever, actually. But Bruce had noticed his bright disposition had shifted greatly since Tim's sickness. Understandably. When was the last time he'd spoken to his closest brother? He'd known this whole time that Tim had not been the boy he'd known. Stubbornness, perhaps, kept him from accepting that.

"He's not above talking to," Bruce admitted, going back to the computer, "This other side of Tim still has feelings. He doesn't like being talked down to."

"So we annoy the crap out of him," Dick suggested, "Maybe he'll go away for good then."

A childish suggestion.

"Or maybe he'll hurt Tim," Bruce mused, "What did he mean by putting Tim on punishment?"

A sharp gasp came from the boy in question, and in an instant, Dick was back by Tim's side.

Bruce watched the two cautiously. Even though this Tim, with his blue eyes and shaking hands, was a closer version to the Tim they knew, it still might not be Tim. It could be the docile side of him. And the docile side of Tim was only familiar because Tim had suppressed the other side of himself for years.

"Hang tight, buddy," Dick told him, untying the knot, "Just let me get this… out. There."

Free from his bindings, Tim said nothing, choosing instead to pull his legs up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, and putting his head down. Then what began as a hiccup, became full fledged crying.

Dick looked back at Bruce, and Bruce gave Dick a look right back. Dick raised an eyebrow, and Bruce nodded at him slightly.

"I'm gonna find Alfred," Dick said softly, leaving the two.

When Dick disappeared up the stairs, Bruce sat Indian style in front of Tim. It was probably best that he try and say something comforting. It's alright. You're gonna be okay. We'll figure this out together. No one's given up on you. I'm here for you.

The possibilities were endless. But it was Tim who spoke first, and what he said Bruce hadn't been expecting.

"I don't know how he's doing it," Tim confessed, sitting up, "I'm sorry, it's my fault."

Why did Tim always have to be the one to apologize first? Bruce needed to work on being the first to speak, for a change.

"This isn't your fault."

"It's _all_ my fault, Bruce!" he exclaimed, running a hand through his hair, "I _let_ him have control, I _let_ him take over, I was just… I was just so _tired._ You don't understand, I don't sleep. And I don't rest. I _can't_ rest because every second of the day I spend fighting to control _him_. But then he offered me a break- _finally_ a break- and I couldn't say no. I just…"

Tim's hiccups interrupted him, and he put his head back down into his knees. Dick would hug Tim right now, but Bruce, for some reason, only put a hand on Tim's shoulder.

 _This,_ right here? This was the real Tim. Bruce didn't know how he recognized him, but he knew for sure that this was the boy he'd raised. It was a relief to see he was still alive and well enough to still retain some common sense. Misplaced guilt and irrational culpability, but still common sense.

He was caught in an aggressive war between two sides of himself, something Bruce was confused about. Why would one side of Tim, a docile and calm side, fight with the other, more verbal and aggressive, side? Neither was the real Tim, so what put the two at odds?

No, something in Bruce's calculations was off. He needed more information.

"Tim, I need you to try and answer me to the best of your ability right now," Bruce said, petting Tim's hair and making him look up, "You're aware that you're fighting with another personality?"

"His name is Junior," Tim said, sniffing and wiping at his face, "He's absolutely insane."

"I get that," Bruce nodded, "But he's not the only one inside your head. Tim, there's another one. A quieter one. _He's_ the one Junior hates so much."

Tim furrowed his eyebrows, shaking his head a bit.

"There's no other voice," he insisted, "It's just me."

"If Junior can take over your body so easily, why would he hurt you? Why make you hurt other people? Why not just be you, and get rid of you? _Something's_ making give up control and become recessive."

"He's _insane,_ Bruce. He just _likes_ to hurt people. I know him, there's not much logic behind his moves."

This just proved how out of the loop the real Tim had been.

"When you blackout," Bruce began, "What do you remember when you wake up?"

"Nothing," Tim said, his voice coming out at a whisper, suddenly.

"Yet things are different than before the blackout?"

Tim nodded, closing his eyes tightly now.

"How different?" Bruce asked quickly, "What's changed?"

Tim shook his head, gripping his hair now, and Bruce pried the boy's death grip off of it, so that he didn't hurt himself. One of the sides was trying to force Tim back into his mind, and time was running out.

"Tim, answer me," Bruce pushed, "It's important."

"I don't know," Tim wheezed, "It's never the same. Never makes sense. Sometimes, I've hurt someone. Sometimes, I've hurt myself."

"Tim, try and remember," Bruce insisted, "When was the last time-"

Tim fell over, unconscious, and unlike the last time, Bruce caught him.

He'd hoped his questions had raised even more questions in Tim's mind. His questions had helped him, but even more so, his questions were aimed to help Tim. Tim knew better than anyone what was going on in his mind. Those questions would make him think. Make him investigate. Hopefully renew his vigor to fight.

From what Bruce could tell, the aggressive side of Tim was bent on hurting people. Like Joker, it had an irrational love of inflicting damage and pain. It impulsively struck and lashed out at people around him, even people who loved him. Mix that with Tim's love of puzzles and riddles and wordplay and you get a crazy version of Joker that Bruce was sure the clown just _loved_.

In contrast, the docile side of Tim was more than just docile. It was depressed and terrified of the aggressive side. When this side took over Tim, out came the suicidal thoughts and hopeless outlook on life. Contrary to Bruce's previous idea, this side of Tim was probably the only thing that kept Tim from completely giving up to the aggressive side. It's introverted and irrational fear of everything kept Tim from truly giving up. And not out of duty, but simply out of fear.

The aggressive side kept Tim from killing himself. But the suicidal side kept Tim from killing other people.

Bruce couldn't imagine having that constant battle rage in his head. How exhausting it must be to stop death from claiming a life or his own constantly. Regardless that the two sides kept each other alive, they were both insane. They were both killers with a demented outlook on life, and Tim had to deal with them incessantly. He wasn't even aware that two of the voices in his head weren't even his own. He'd only recognized one other voice. Which meant the docile, suicidal Tim sounded scarily like Tim's normal mind.

How far gone had Tim been, even before his kidnapping?

* * *

Red Hood wasn't too happy to be called in early. He'd found a particularly informative thug with a fear of death and a big mouth.

That was a good and fun time to Red Hood. He'd already wasted a chunk of his night saving the youngest and keeping Dick in check. Clearly, he was the only brother with his head screwed on right.

But he counted his losses. He disobeyed orders regularly, and with Bats just back on earth with all kinds of messes to deal with, Red Hood was basically a free man. But, he could always do it again the next night. After shooting the thug in his knee, he'd be easy to find. At least now Red Hood wouldn't have to hear one of Dick's speeches.

Red Hood grappled to the top of a building and spotted Shadow roof jumping towards home almost immediately. Red Hood watched the little demon go, choosing to trail him home instead of meet up. If it were Nightwing, he'd of raced him. If it were Robin, he'd of cut his line at the most inopportune time. Shadow was no fun. He didn't race and he didn't think 'revenge' was useful, unlike the Replacement.

His cycle pulling into the cave, he cut the engine only after spotting Dick pace back in forth in front of the computer. Pacing always meant confusion. Dick probably didn't notice, but Bruce tended to do the same thing.

"It's too early for me to be back here in a good mood," Jason said, taking his helmet off, "So don't expect me to be any help to anybody."

Dick shushed him, motioning him over to the computer.

"Keep your voice down," he said, and Jason raised an eyebrow.

He'd never wanted to yell so bad. Why _was_ that?

"What's the problem?" he asked, approaching, and Dick motioned to an occupied infirmary cot.

"It's Tim."

Jason scoffed, turning on his heels.

"You called me back here because the Replacement is sick? You've cracked, Dick, and I'm going back out."

"Jason wait," Dick said, his voice a firm whisper, "He needs our help. _I_ need your help."

"No, _you_ need a reality check, and _he_ needs a few good stabs and a gunshot to the arm. He's caused me to bleed more than anyone on the streets, and that's not going unpunished."

"Jason, he _is_ sick. But, It's worse than that. I'll let Bruce explain all the details, but, he's more than not well-"

"So take the kid to the doctor. It's not rocket science."

"You don't get it." Dick sighed, pinching his nose.

"No, I don't. And I don't think it'll surprise you to hear that I don't care. I took him up to your room when he nearly killed himself. But don't mistake that as me caring, because I don't. I just didn't want the old man to have a heart attack. I wasn't in the mood for a funeral."

Dick's look was purely skeptical, but he said nothing.

"Where's Alfred," Jason asked, ruffling his helmet hair back to it's original messy state, "I'm starving."

"Alfred's in the library," Dick said, looking back towards Tim, "He's going through the old medical books..."

"And Bruce?"

"He just went out. He's following the lead on some Korean assassin Damian heard about while he was in the Alps. They say the man knows everything about Korea's smuggling ring. We think he may know about the drug Joker gave Tim."

"Everything's about the kid nowadays," Jason said, leaving to find his own food, "I get sick and tired of hearing about him 24/7."

"Jason," Dick said, seriously, "You have no idea what he's going through. Honestly, none of us do."

"Can't be worse than dying," Jason said, offhandedly, stopping only when Dick grabbed his arm.

"Jay, just… just wait down here a minute," Dick said, and Jason looked at his arm, and then back at Dick.

Reflex made him tense, and more than anything did he want to rip his arm out of his elder brothers hand. But he didn't, and it was because Dick's tone did not match his emotionless face. There was a hint of begging hidden beneath his words, and it made Jason look at Dick slightly sideways.

"Why?" he asked slowly, and Dick took a deep breath, his gaze shifting back to Tim as if the time he'd spent looking at Jason was being timed.

"I don't know…" Dick started slowly, "I don't know if I can handle him, Jason."

" _You're_ scared of the kid?" Jason asked, his eyebrows raised.

"I'm not scared _of_ him," Dick clarified, "I'm scared of what I might have to _do_ to him. I _can't_ hurt him, Jason. I physically, cannot hurt him. But if he gets out of control, _someone's_ gonna have to detain him."

"And you think I'm the guy?"

"You've never had a problem hurting him before."

"Yeah, but… that's only when…"

Jason stopped himself. He didn't need to explain why he hurt Tim when he did. He oughtn't care that Dick saw their relationship as purely violent, because honestly, it was. Jason was the jerk and Tim was the smart aleck. Those two things just didn't mix well. Besides, it wasn't like Tim had never hurt him before. Jason had been laid up for days because of the Replacement.

If Jason had to get physical, for Tim's own sake, of course, he had absolutely no hesitations about it. Was a bit eager, actually, hoping things might escalate to it, even.

Was that a little messed up?

"I'm hoping it won't come to that," Dick added, "When he's asleep, it's only the nightmares I worry about. It's when he's awake that I'm worried about."

"I heard everything on the mics," Jason nodded, "Kids got that whole _Sybil_ thing going on. How many voices are we at?"

"Three including his own," Dick sighed, "Bruce is worried about the docile side. We can't figure out why Tim never noticed it before. He's so observant…"

"That side must not want to be found," Jason said, "How good is Tim at hiding?"

"He's excellent," Dick mused, rubbing his chin, "But why would that side hide from the real Tim?"

"Who knows," Jason shrugged, sitting at the computer, "Maybe it's not really docile at all."

Jason felt Dick's eyes flick to him, as if Jason had lit a light bulb in Dick's mind, but Jason didn't question him. Instead, he began a search for a human trafficking ring the thug he'd found earlier that night had hinted at.

As Jason searched, he couldn't help the twitches his eye did whenever Dick did something annoying. Every twenty minutes, Dick was hovering over the cot Tim slept in, adjusting his blanket, taking this temperature, fluffing his pillow, talking to him quietly.

Dick was, technically, doing nothing that warranted Jason's anger, but hearing it happen behind him was pissing him off something fierce and he had no idea why.

A small part of him suggested maybe he go over and check on Tim as well. See for himself just what the Joker had done to yet another Robin without the false pretenses Tim was constantly putting on. But that thought felt irrational, and incredibly unlike him.

Did he feel… _guilty_?

Jason earned himself a small smile. Of course he didn't. So maybe he could sometimes be a little harsh on the kid. It only made him stronger. And sometimes, maybe Jason hit Tim unnecessarily. But in their line of work, Jason's hits could be seen as purely practice shots. And okay, maybe Jason's hatred of Tim was based on an irrational 'jealousy' that was born when he wasn't quite in his right mind. And maybe Tim had actually done nothing to ever warrant that hatred. And no, Tim had never initiated any fights with Jason, though he tended to apologize for them anyway…

Jason shook his head. He did not feel guilty because he'd done nothing wrong. He didn't care that the Replacement was going through something. Or had been for a full month and a half. And even if he did, the best thing he could do for Tim was make the madman that had hurt them both, pay. Make him pay for all the lives he'd taken and hurt with his own life.

It was a topic so appealing that Jason saved his human trafficking search and began a new search for the Joker.

* * *

Dick had been worried about what he'd do when Tim woke up, but now that the boy was just lying there, stiff as a board and struggling to breathe, Dick only wished he'd wake up. Hours had passed and Tim had not stirred or moved, even after Dick put in full efforts to wake him.

"No fever." Alfred announced, "No high blood pressure. No unusual brain waves. Even his pulse is regular."

Dick bit his nail as he thought. Nothing was physically 'wrong' with Tim. Besides his bouts of sickness, that is. But the vomiting and slight deliria always accompanied some stressful situation, which, in Tim's case, was unusual, but not necessarily a medical phenomenon.

"Think he can hear us?" Jason asked, only now coming over to look at Tim, and Dick shrugged.

"With his REM where it is, that is unlikely." Damian said, looking at the monitors, "He's nearer to coma condition than sleeping."

"Hey replacement!" Jason yelled in Tim's ear, "I'm resetting the passwords on you laptop!"

"Stop it, Jason." Dick said, pulling Jason back. "This is serious."

Jason shrugged, satisfied, and left to get back on the computer.

Dick was tempted to go and get Bruce, who was currently upstairs working/entertaining. An unexpected board member of Wayne Enterprises had shown up with the latest reports on their stocks, and he'd felt the need to bring them over and discuss them with Bruce at four in the morning.

Alfred nearly didn't let the man in.

But that was the thing about being a hero with a secret identity. You couldn't let you hero life intermix with your personal life. You could be working and smiling and chatting away upstairs while your injured son lay on a cot in your basement. And there was nothing you could do about either situations.

Dick knew Bruce was doing all he could to hurry the man's visit along. He knew Bruce was taking shortcuts in the law in order to get the man out of the house without too much suspicion. If Jason had answered the door, Bruce would never have even known the man had dropped by.

Dick made his mind up to go get Bruce though, when Tim began coughing weakly, gasping for air despite the oxygen mask Alfred put on him. Maybe Dick could fake an excuse to get their visitor out faster. Just as he turned to go, though, Alfred spoke up.

"I'm running to the drug store," Alfred said, closing the medical book he'd been reading, "There are some herbal tonics I could make to help him breathe better."

As Alfred left, Dick scanned the cave for Jason. Somewhere within the last five minutes, it seemed as if Jason had disappeared, as was often the case when there was work for him to do. The computer was still on, though, casting a blue light over the area.

"Grayson, go." Damian said, taking a seat beside Tim, "I can manage."

"Damian-"

"He's asleep," Damian said, and Dick raised an eyebrow.

"That means very little nowadays..."

Still, business visits from the board could last for _hours_ , and Dick knew Bruce could handle this situation better than he could. Especially with Alfred gone now.

"Alright," he told Damian, already backing up, "I'm running upstairs, but I'll be _right_ back. Promise."

Damian shook his head. He wasn't an idiot. And he certainly was no child, yet everyone insisted he was.

Dick ran up the stairs, and Damian rolled his eyes at Dick's receding shadow. He was absolutely tired of people thinking he couldn't handle even the simplest of jobs. Sure, there was the one time he'd gotten distracted by a cat, whom he was calling Talon, and maybe Drake had gotten out of the house. But Drake was back, now. And though Drake wasn't what one would call 'well', he was still here, and alive.

And, he was… _supposed_ to be asleep.

An eyebrow raise was the only surprise Damian showed of being being shocked by Drake's wide _grey_ eyes that stared at him.

Damian was aware that blue eyes typically indicated that Drake was his normal self and that green eyes typically indicated that Drake's other self, Junior, was in control. But he had no idea what grey eyes meant, and he doubted his father or the others had known about this either.

"And which one are you?" Damian asked, turning to face Drake.

Drake sat up, slowly, running a hand back through his hair, and looking down at himself, like this was the first time he'd ever seen himself.

"Jay," Drake said, "My name is Jay."

It was unsettling to hear Drake say his name was something other than what it was. This must've been the docile side of Drake his father had spoken about.

"My name is Jay," Drake said again, turning to Damian now, "And I'm going to kill you."

* * *

 **How you like?**

 **Again, I'm sorry for such a delay in time. This story does, in a strange kind of way, matter to me. And I want everyone out there reading to get the closure I see in my head, so we're on the right path, I think.**

 **Stay tuned for what's up ahead. The night hadn't ended, and dawns still a ways off.**

 **TheForgottenName**


	19. Weak Knees

**Told you I'd be back.**

 **Anyway here's the next part. Enjoy!**

* * *

That response did _not_ scream docile and sensitive like Damian's father had originally thought. As rare as it was, there _were_ times when the great Batman was wrong, and judging by Drake...Jay's reaction, it seemed like Damian's father was wrong about this.

The slowness in Jay's movements had made Damian doubt his energy and physical condition. It made Jay's lightning fast dismount from the cot that much more shaking and alarming. Damian had not expected that, but wasn't too fazed either.

"I'm not going to let you kill me," Damian told him, dropping and into a fighting stance, "Besides, you couldn't if you tried."

Jay's smile said he accepted that challenge, and Damian wondered if maybe now had been a bad time to display the confidence he'd always displayed to Drake when the two sparred or had their 'disagreements'. After all, it was Drake that would not kill him. Damian didn't know Jay.

Jay struck first, and the term struck was incredibly appropriate. Damian managed to block a total of two whole hits, but every other jab, punch, and kick that was aimed at Damian hit its mark. Damian had never fought anyone that fast, and he'd trained with some of the fastest masters in the world, and even outside of it.

A good roundhouse kick to Damian's already aching jaw sent him down to his face. He whipped around as quick as he could, knowing Jay could've easily used that moment to strike again, and harder, but Jay swayed where he was for a second, blinking rapidly, and beginning to wheeze.

Damian made his own move, sweeping Jay's feet, flipping him into his stomach, and jumping on top of his back when the boy fell.

Jay's dizzy spell didn't last long, because the moment Damian had secured him in a proper hold, he'd begun struggling something fierce. He headbutted Damian, nearly breaking Damian's hold (and jaw), and then headbutted him twice more with seemingly no pain inflicted on himself.

"Drake, _stop it!_ " Damian yelled, struggling to keep the older boy pinned.

The use of Drake's named seemed to spark a hint of recognition, and Jay's struggling subsided a bit. But that was over quickly, and Jay nearly shook Damian off in a burst of anger.

"Drake, think of father," Damian tried, aware that his attempt to humanize the young man beneath him was incredibly awkward, "What would he say about your behavior?"

"Bruce _isn't_ my father," Jay responded, "And if he were, I'd of of killed him by now."

" _Pfft,_ " Damian scoffed, "Even if you _could_ kill father, you wouldn't dare."

"Ever wonder why _I_ don't call him 'dad'?" Jay asked, his voice eerily calm all of a sudden, "Dick calls him 'dad' when he's being playful sometimes. Jason calls him 'pops' as a sign of disrespect. But I've never called him anything other than Bruce, and it's because he _isn't_ my dad, and he will _never_ be anything close to a father figure to me. I will never understand why you care about him like you do."

Damian wondered briefly if Drake actually felt that way. Lord knew Damian had tried to push that opinion on him countless times, but did Drake actually believe that? In all honesty, Drake wasn't his father's child. He was just a kid that lived with them. But never did it cross Damian's mind that Drake had felt that way. That he'd genuinely felt like an outcasted outsider, forced to live with a family he wasn't a part of. Damian had believed that Drake truly felt a part of the family, and _that_ was why he'd tried so hard to convince him otherwise.

Grayson had _nearly_ convinced him once, that he was jealous of Drake. Jealous that Drake didn't have to demand his father's attention and respect. Jealous that Drake was so effortlessly good at all the things his father admired most. Integrity. Honesty. Hacking and fighting. Fighting came naturally to Damian, but the whole act of being 'good' and 'upright' didn't come so easily. Certainly not as easy as it did for Drake. Sometimes Damian wondered why he worked so hard to please a man as unpleasable as Bruce Wayne.

"Because he's my father," Damian stated, to both Jay, as well as himself .

"If you want him so bad," Drake began, his voice and anger rising rapidly, "Then you can _have_ him. _I_ don't want him. I couldn't care less _about_ him. About _any_ of them! I hate them. I hate them! I hate, hate, hate, hate, _hate,_ them! All of you!"

Damian didn't believe that for half a second, but he needed to distract the older boy, because there was no way he could physically hold him for much longer.

"You don't mean that, Drake," he said, "You don't hate him."

"I _do_ hate him," Drake said, a slight laugh in his voice, "And even though I know what you're doing, I'm gonna let you in on a little secret."

It didn't come as a surprise to Damian that Drake saw through his stalling, but out of curiosity, he leaned in a little closer to hear this so called secret. He couldn't imagine it being anything useful, though.

"He's a user!" Drake yelled in his ear, startling Damian, "He a user who uses people. He used Dick, and Jason, and me, and you're so eager, he won't even _have_ to trick you into loving him. You're willing to do it on your own."

Damian grunted with the effort of holding Jay down. Damian was young, and he was small. Holding people and monsters down twelves times his size, stature, weight, and strength had been one of the first things he'd had been taught. All of that training was surfacing right about now.

"But you'll love him," Drake said bitterly, "And you'll do everything he asks and then you'll fail, because unlike him, you're human. And from that moment on you'll be damaged goods and he'll set out to find someone else and you'll be left _dying_ inside because you'll be by his side, but counting down the seconds until he _rips_ off your mask and gives it to some _kid,_ because your obsolete in his mind."

Drake ceased fighting, and Damian took the lull in the struggle to actually listen to what Drake was saying. No, this was not the Drake he knew. It was Jay. A young man with grey eyes brought out by a drug the Joker had injected him with. And even though this was Jay's words, it came out as Drake's voice, and the words held pain in them that could only have stung Drake himself, and lingered on and festered for years. No drug induced alter ego could feel pain like this if the original didn't feel it twice as hard.

"Father is not like Grayson," Damian said, shocked his first instinct at the moment was to attempt to offer something akin to comfort, "His show of affection is limited and strange, at best."

"Limited," Jay said, laughing sarcastically, "There's nothing limited about the man. Everything he does is calculated enough to make up for his shortcomings. He doesn't care that i'm hurting, he just blocks it from his mind because it's easier than facing the truth. He forgot me because it was strategic. At least Jason was _dead_ when Bruce forgot him. At least he was gone, and not expected to come back. _I'm still here,_ though. I'm alive. And I'm breathing. But Bruce'll stab me anyway because he doesn't care. It's what he _does._ He doesn't know what family is. He doesn't _care_."

Much easier than Damian had expected, Jay flipped out of his hold and rolled to his feet. With ease like that, Damian knew Jay could have escaped whenever he wanted to… so why didn't he? Why did he let himself be held down? It wasn't like he was comfortable; Damian had been _hurting_ him.

"I hate him…" Jay said, his voice suddenly in a half whisper. "I hate him so horribly I could kill him…"

Those were trigger words that made Damian's muscles tense. But he looked at Jay a little harder. He'd zoned out suddenly, his face wincing slightly, like he might be in pain.

* * *

 _Trapped in his mind, Tim was hunched over, holding his head in pain. It felt like his brain had been split open by the edge of a piece of paper, and lemon and salt had been dumped in. This pain was unlike any pain he'd ever felt, and his vision blurred because of it. He stumbled to the ground, gasping, trying to catch the breath that refused to surface._

" _Guess the_ _ **real**_ _party starts now," Junior said, approaching and taking a seat beside Tim._

 _Tim gasped, clutching his chest. It was the only response he could give._

" _Stop writhing in pain," Junior said, grabbing Tim by his hair, "I hate the sound of your whimpering."_

 _Immediately, the pain stopped. Tim gasped a breath of relief, laying down in exhaustion._

" _What… happened?" Tim asked._

" _Jay happened," Junior shrugged, imagining up a doll that he proceeded to set on fire and rip apart, "You probably don't remember him much. He's always around, but, he hangs back a lot."_

 _Tim recalled what Bruce had said about there being by a third identity. One he hadn't noticed. One that was the opposite of Junior._

" _If_ _ **you're**_ _here," Tim said, sitting up from the floor, "And_ _ **I'm**_ _here, then… then 'Jay' is in control?"_

" _Yup," Junior said, picking the dolls hair out, "He and the little nymph are playing a game right now. That little nymph doesn't know, though, that the longer he talks to Jay, the more Jay learns about him. And the more Jay knows about anything, the stronger he gets."_

 _Junior burst into laughter, but it died down almost immediately, and then began again until the imaginary boy was heaving and choking. Tears ran down his cheeks, but Tim sensed more_ _than simply hysteria causing the slight breakdown._

 _Junior was actually_ _ **afraid**_ _of Jay._

 _Tim stood, looking up. The high tech room he'd created and had been in for what felt like ever was gone now. All the gadgets and activities he'd occupied himself with were gone as well. Now, Tim was in nothing but blank, white space. The white sky met the white ground at an unrecognizable horizon. Trying to get a feel for whoever Jay was, Tim closed his eyes. If Junior was afraid of him, then Bruce was wrong about him being docile and weak._

" _Junior," Tim said, looking down at the laughing clown, "What exactly is it that Jay wants?"_

" _To be in control," Junior's said, wiping his face, "It's what all of us want."_

" _Yes, but why is he learning things?" Tim asked, "Why is he fighting, and angry? He'd learn more if he pretended to be me, and not… not…"_

" _Not like me?" Junior asked, his voice unapologetic, "Well, it's probably because none of it matters. He's gonna smoke Gotham with the same drug Joker injected into us not too far from now. He only needs to learn about the bat-family, because they were the only thing standing in his way."_

 _An entire city full of people trapped inside their own minds with maniacs like Junior. Thousands of 'Jay's' running around acting like demented Jokers. It was Joker's greatest plan, and he didn't even have to get his hands dirty._

" _Were?" Tim asked startled, and Junior shrugged._

" _Jay's been observing for nearly two months now. He knows pretty much everything about the family. How they work together, how they work apart, how they walk. Habits, faults, how they respond to pain. I was never allowed to kill anyone, but I was allowed to hurt people and piss them off. Jay told me so. He wanted to see how they responded to different stimuli. You know Jason can block pain everywhere, except his stomach? That knife we threw at him must've really hurt! Going into Dick's room with a knife was just for fun, that night, though. Wasn't that fun?_ _ **I**_ _had fun... What about the bloody ice rink? That was fun, too."_

 _Tim ran his hands through his hair, staring at his feet. All this time, he'd thought Junior was running things. All this time he'd been afraid of Junior. But really, Junior was only a lackey. An impressionable, giddy, psychopath that was afraid of a much bigger, stronger, and more deranged side of Tim._

 _And all that time, Jay had been sitting back in the shadows, learning everything about Tim's family. Their weaknesses, as well as their strengths. Tim didn't doubt that by now, Jay had all the information he needed to actually take down the bat-family, as farfetched as it seemed_. _This was why Joker had kidnapped him, specifically. He'd needed someone close to the bat-family, but arguably quieter and sneakier than Nightwing and Red Hood, and old enough have influence and the ability to hide things from Batman, unlike Shadow. Tim's own personality had doomed him, and he'd had no idea Joker even noticed his disposition._

 _Tim looked up, again. There was nothing holding Jay back from actually killing Damian, and everyone, now._

 _No, that wasn't true._ _ **He**_ _was here. And Tim would not let that happen._

" _Jay isn't going to let you have control anymore," Junior said, reading his mind, "He doesn't need us anymore."_

" _How do I get control?" Tim asked, ignoring Junior's pessimistic advice, "I need to do something."_

 _Either Junior didn't care about what Tim felt needed to be done, or he didn't comprehend it. If he did, it didn't show._

" _I'll get Jay for you," Junior said, getting up and laughing suddenly, "You've got to_ _ **fight**_ _for control."_

 _Junior didn't even need to move, because instinct made Tim whip around behind him, and he found himself face to face with himself. Face to face with himself exactly, actually. The only difference between himself and who he assumed was Jay, was the fact that Jay had grey eyes._

" _Freaky!" Junior sang, laughing, looking between the two._

 _Juniors laughing turned into a cries of pain, though, because with a simple flick of his wrist, Jay had bound the clown in iron chains and set him on fire._

 _Tim dropped to his knees, feeling Junior's excruciating burning on his own body. A side-effect to being the original, Tim assumed._

 _Tim waved his hand in Junior's direction, and water poured on Junior like a waterfall, putting the fire out and releasing him from his binds._

" _Cute trick," Jay spoke, and Tim found that hearing his own voice come out of Jay was more startling than hearing his voice come out of Junior._

" _I need my body," Tim said, pushing the pain aside._

 _It helped to remind himself that pain here was not real. Nothing was._

" _Let you have control and warn everyone?" Jay asked, "Not a chance."_

" _Fight, fight, fight, fight," Junior's cheered, weakly but cheerfully, oblivious to the idea that speaking or getting involved might cost him, or at the very least, get him set on fire again._

 _Jay struck first, and had Tim not erected the stone wall in front of him so quickly, the fist that smashed through the wall would have smashed through his head. Tim dodged from behind the wall, meeting Jay with his own onslaught of attacks, and Jay avoided and blocked them easily._

 _Clearly, Tim was not much of a fighter in comparison to Jay. But, being trapped in his mind had it's advantages._

 _A bo staff appeared in his hand as quickly as he'd wanted it to, and with a flick of his wrist, the staff bzzzt to life, it's ends leaking electricity that was deadly. His lazy outfit of gym pants and a t shirt shifted to his familiar Robin suit, because that was what Tim was used to fighting in. He hoped it helped subconsciously._

 _Jay certainly didn't seem fazed by any of it. Just to match Tim, the same outfit Tim had had on vanished and he wore the same Robin suit, only, his was completely black. In his hands two escrima sticks like Nightwing used appeared, and those flicked to life and leaked electricity, too._

 _When Junior attacked, Tim found himself on the rebound quickly. Up close, Tim didn't have a chance at beating Jay. He needed to get some distance between them. The ground shook and quaked as Tim grew a mountain beneath his feet and shot skyward. Jay followed on his own mountain easily, and Tim bombarded him with an onslaught of boulders he caused to fall like rain._

" _That's the best you can do, isn't it?" Jay asked, his hand stretched out over his head, providing some invisible shield that made the boulders bounce off of it._

 _Rocks_ _slid off of Jay's mountain, floating up and combining with each other to make a makeshift bridge that led all the way to Tim. Jay made slow, purposeful steps off of his mountain, his nonchalance indicating that he knew he'd already won._

 _Honestly, Tim knew it too, and he looked down at the immeasurable distance down to the invisible ground. Though pain here was imaginary, death was still possible._ _ **He**_ _might go technically brain dead, but there were two other personalities that would easily take over, and with him gone, there would be nothing to stop them._

 _Tim took a chance and leapt off his mountain, getting just out of reach of Jay. He didn't panic as he flew downward. Instead, he caught himself on the branch of a giant tree he grew. He was pulling himself higher into the tree when, in the blink of an eye, the tree was gone and Tim was falling._

" _Ten points for dismount," Junior called, as Tim dropped to the ground, rolling to lessen the pain._

 _Tim groaned, picking himself up. He flicked his hand, trying to bring back the bo staff he didn't remember losing. When it didn't appear, he tried to create two escrima sticks. A sword. A taser. Stun gun. Shield. Rope. Bolas. Smoke bomb. Anything to give him a slight upper hand, but nothing he thought of came into existence._

" _Looks like Jay cut you off," Junior said, flicking his own wrist and creating a vast woods around them, "We can play hide and seek now, though. Can I be it fir-"_

" _Junior, you've got to help me," Tim interrupted, looking through the canopies to where Jay had been descending on top of a boulder, "I can't beat him."_

 _The fall, luckily, had not hurt him too bad. But without his abilities here, Tim had absolutely no chance or advantage._

" _Oh,_ _ **I**_ _don't want to fight Jay," Junior's laughed, "That's no fun. I'll gladly watch you, on the other hand."_

" _Junior if I die," Tim explained, looking around for a place to hide, "You'll be stuck here with Jay. All alone."_

 _Junior's_ _face was a thoughtful one. For someone all about fun, the concept of a serious decision must have terrified him. But not as much as the thought of Jay did. The canopies parted on their own as Jay approached, and any consideration Junior had of taking Jay on looked to have vanished._

" _Stop talking to him, Junior," Jay instructed, "He's a dead man walking."_

" _Jay," Junior said, beginning a slow, nervous, chuckle, "Let's save our killing for the bat family. Remember how excited you were to kill Dick? Let's go kill him instead."_

 _ **That**_ _topic would be addressed later._

 _For now, Tim watched Jay's full attention shift off of him. The look in Jay's eyes made Tim sorry he brought Junior into the discussion. But then again, the psycho clown did not deserve his sympathy or his help. Now, actually, would be a good time to run. If, of course, there had been somewhere to go._

 _Somewhere like… the_ _ **real**_ _world._

 _If Jay was here, fighting and keeping his whole attention on Junior and Tim, than who was controlling his body? Tim knew from experience that he could get through a day, let alone a few minutes, not putting much thought or effort into his movements and responses to people. Maybe that was what was happening now._

 _With no one 'in control' of his body at the moment, he had no one to fight with to get the upper hand._

 _Like being trapped in a dream, he forced himself to wake from his nightmare._

* * *

Drake was standing weakly, and tilting and rocking, like his legs might give out at any moment. His eyes no longer held that dark, greyish tint to them. They no longer held focused determination and hidden agendas. Now, they were wide eyed, and watery, and blue, and confused, and he was suddenly having a hard time breathing.

Drakes blue eyes looked up and for a moment. He simply stated at Damian, and Damian stared back. And then Drake moved.

Like lightning, Drake was running, and there seemed to be nothing capable of slowing him down. But he did not run towards Damian. Instead, he ran the opposite way, towards the medical bay, and Damian ran right behind him.

If Drake wanted to stab him with a syringe, then Damian would be ready for it. Drake had already proven that he was not above that lowly street fighter form, as obvious was his encounter with Jason.

But immediately, Damian knew Drake didn't intend to harm him any further. He kept his back to Damian, like Damian's presence didn't matter, which was not what you did when you wanted to stab that person.

Instead, Drake grabbed a long, surgical hemostat, and in only a millisecond, Damian gauged the angle that Drake held the hemostat, the angle his hand was, and his stance, before jumping into action.

Drake had _tried,_ with little to no concern of Damian's presence, to stab himself directly into his own chest. And had Damian not sprang to grab the hemostat from him, he would have.

"Let it _go_!" Drake yelled, trying to snatch the tool from Damian's grasp.

"No!" Damian yelled back at him, and was met with a foot to his solar plexus.

Damian didn't let go, though, even when his legs were swept from beneath him. Even when Drake climbed on top of him and slammed his head into the ground twice.

"I am _not_ going to let you kill yourself," Damian grit, "It is a cowardly act and just plain… just plain _selfish_."

"I don't have _choice!_ " Drake yelled, and his choice of words made Damian furrow his eyebrows. "Damian, just let it _go_! _You_ hate me anyway!"

" _Stop it_ , _Tim_!"

Damian raised his knee to Drake's stomach before raising it again to knee him in the head. Damian successfully ripped the hemostat from Drake's hands, and he backed up quickly and out of Drake's reach.

"What do you mean you have no choice?" Damian asked lowly, a bit out of breath, his eyes squinted.

"I _have_ to do it," Drake pleaded, the fight gone from him now, tears now freely running down his face, brazenly, " _Please,_ Damian, let me do this one thing. _Please."_

Something in Damian made it hard for him to breathe suddenly, and it confused him. It would come as a surprise to no one that caring about people didn't come naturally to him. Much less about Drake… _Tim._

His voice had been so… final. So conclusive. Somewhere in his messed up mind, he'd determined that killing himself was the only, absolute answer to whatever problem had presented itself.

"Why?" he asked.

"You wouldn't understand," Tim said, "But I've already stabbed Jason…. I've already _attacked_ _you_ … Damian, I can't control this. You _need_ to let me do this. It's _not_ going to stop… "

"What can't you control?" Damian asked, and Tim shook his head.

His face went tense, then, like whatever pain he was struggling through was back, and his hands went back to gripping his hair.

It was like watching a flower bloom sped up. Or watching a sunrise in reverse. Something in Tim's eyes changed very quickly, and it was not just the return of the grey tint. There was something else. Something dark and unusual. And slowly, a dark smile grew on Tim's face.

It all made Damian's heart stop. He'd never felt gripping fear like he did at that moment. And all he wanted was for Bruce to come by. Or for Dick to drop in. He even wouldn't mind seeing Jason or Alfred. Just _anyone._ Or _everyone._

And then that dark look in Tim's eyes was gone, and blue eyes were back, red rimmed and miserable. Tim dropped to his knees, putting his head into his arms and cried hard enough to make himself hiccup. He bawled himself up tightly, and just cried.

And then he started laughing. Loud and maniacal. And then he screamed, afraid and frustrated. And then he started crying again.

A few seconds passed before Damian snapped himself out of the daze he'd fallen in, and with a push of a button on a nearby table, backup was coming.

It was Dick who responded, running down the stairs quickly to see why Damian had sent the alert.

"Damian?" he called, searching the dark cave, "Damian? _Tim_?"

"Over here." Damian said, and in seconds Dick was there, and Damian sighed a breath of relief.

Seeing Damian was alright, Dick immediately went to comfort Tim, who was still hysterical.

"What happened?" Dick asked, and Damian was surprised to find that when he opened his mouth, he was speechless, still in awe and a little afraid of what he'd just seen.

* * *

Dick hushed Tim's exhausted whimpers, sitting on the floor and rocking his younger brother in his arms. Tim was very clearly exhausted, but he refused to sleep or rest, and Bruce explained that letting his guard down would allow one of Tim's other personalities to become dominant.

But being in whatever constant pain Tim was in and fighting so hard against other, stronger personalities, was weighing on more than just his physical state. He'd fallen into some trance of unresponsiveness that seemed more like a nightmare than anything. He jumped at the slightest sound and spoke under his breath to himself.

"This is the first I've heard of this Jay, person," Alfred said, cleaning up the area Tim and Damian had destroyed.

Jason scoffed all the way from the computer.

"The Replacement took my identity," he mused.

Since first hearing of Jay, Jason had taken personal offense in the name Tim had no part in assigning.

"Master Jason, please," Alfred sighed, tired of the argument.

"He took my spot in the house," Jason went on.

"Jason," Alfred warned.

"Now, he has my nickname?"

"You told me you hated that nickname," Dick objected quietly.

"Yeah, but you don't listen," Jason argued, "It's still _mine_. That little monster is just after my life."

Bruce sighed loud enough to end the conversation himself. Nothing that happened to Tim was his own fault.

Damian had spent the past half hour trying to calm himself. He'd never been shaken before, and he certainly saw fear as unexceptional. He had no idea why _this_ miniscule situation affected him so much. It was Drake who was going through this nightmare, not him.

"Guys," Dick warned, sitting Tim up on his own and standing, "He's changing."

Damian backed up behind his father, and Jason came over from the computer.

"Tie him," Bruce instructed, and Dick was already moving to fasten the cuffs behind Tim's back.

Tim looked up, suddenly, his green eyes startled and seemingly shocked to even be alive.

"Junior," Dick acknowledged, squatting in front of the boy, "Where's Tim?"

"Hey, I'm a real boy!" Junior laughed, "Didn't think I'd get _this_ chance again…"

"Tim," Dick reminded, snapping in the boy's face, "Where's Tim?"

"Playing with Jay," Junior responded, shifting his weight and getting out of the cuffs easily, "Last I checked, Jay was winning."

"Guess you were right," Jason said, looking to Damian, "Jay _isn't_ a nice guy."

"He tried to _kill_ me!" Damian exclaimed.

"We were _all_ wrong about Jay," Dick said, breaking up the potential argument between the two, "Jay's more violent than we thought."

Junior scoffed, looking between the men.

"Wait…" he laughed, throwing his head back, "Wait, you all thought Jay was a docile, shy little creature, didn't you?"

Dick looked to Bruce, and Bruce narrowed his eyes. That response only made Junior laugh harder, his raspy laugh making everyone in the room cringe a bit. It was too like similar to the Joker's cackling scream.

"Oh, Jay," Junior sighed to himself, happily, "You honestly did it. I didn't think you could fool them, but it took them this long just to discover you."

"Enlighten us, then," Dick said, "Who is Jay, and what is he really?"

"Jay," Junior said, laughing again, "Jay is the _real_ problem. You thought _I_ was bad. I'm just in it for harmless fun! Blow a few things up. Stab a few people. All for a _laugh_!"

"And Jay?" Dick asked.

"Jay is the reason Joker wants us _back_ ," Junior said, shaking his head, "I admit it, I'm the one who stabbed Jason. But Jay attacked Damian. And even _that's_ nothing compared to what Jay _wanted_ to do to him. You can thank Tim for ruining _that_ good time."

No one wanted to admit that this was all a little confusing. And no one certainly wanted to admit that they had no idea how to fix this problem. Answers were coming in much slower than questions, and the need for solutions was in high demand.

As always, Bruce had _some_ idea of what to do next, but Tim's rapid and unpredictable shift in personalities made doing any and everything hard. You never knew if you were getting a violent psycho, an aggressive maniac, or an exhausted victim. Each of them needed constant, intense supervision, and everyone fell short of providing perfect watch.

Damian was no match for Jay. Jason could not comfort Tim. Dick would not hurt Junior. Alfred could care for Tim, but he could not defend against Jay or Junior. And Bruce was needed to solve this puzzle.

Joker had no idea just what damage he'd caused.

Or worse yet, he did.

* * *

 **Stay tuned for the next part. Won't be long for that either.**

 **TheForgottenName**


	20. What the Dead told the Living

**Good news guys! Read about it at the end. For now, read on!**

* * *

If Junior had known telling the family about Jay would put them so on edge, he might of spilled the secrets _weeks_ ago. All those high shoulders and tense muscles and miniscule looks that conveyed hidden messages to each other- seeing this lot freak out was _hilarious_!

" _Stay focused."_

Right. Chemicals.

Jay said his eyes were a curse and a blessing. Blue meant good, green meant psycho, grey meant dangerous. If Jay had done this himself, the family would suspect something immediately, and nothing would get done. Tim didn't follow orders. But Junior, he was the best of both worlds. Loads of fun _and_ pretty good at getting the job done.

Speaking of getting the job done, is this what it felt like to have to pee?

" _Focus."_

Junior grunted at Jay's voice. He may have been good at getting the job done, but he _didn't_ like being bossed around. Especially by someone the same age as him.

All the same, with the cave as silent and boring as it was, Junior had to create his own entertainment. Dick sat on the floor, watching him like a hawk. He wouldn't let Junior take more than three steps in any direction. The little nymph stood behind him like his presence actually made a difference in the scheme of things, which was funny. Father Time kept busy cleaning, and Jason was occupied doing something or another to his bike.

Bruce had been glued to the computer for who knew how long, looking up some Korean company that had a super awesome and colorful website. The site was a scam, of course, but they had this cute little jingle that played a song not in English. Bruce had muted it almost immediately, but Junior still heard it in his head.

" _Bal-i tteol-eojil_ ," he sang to himself _,_ " _ttaekkaji daenseu daenseu."_

Dance. Dance. Until your feet fall off.

That was kind of a fun song, wasn't it? It was, aside from the colorful website, the only thing Junior noticed about whatever super important information Bruce was researching. He wondered, briefly what Tim and Jay would notice. Tim would, more than likely, be just as engrossed in whatever Bruce was reading as Bruce was. Jay would probably put all of his energy into observing something new about Bruce himself.

Junior wondered when the idea of super reinforced cups in the suits became standard. And why, exactly, didn't his suit have a fly opening? That would be super convenient and save a lot of time when-

" _Focus."_

"I've got to pee." Junior announced, and he caught the end of Jason rolling his eyes.

"Go, then," Jason spat, and Junior mocked him.

" _Junior, the chemicals. Focus."_

"But I've got to pee," Junior explained, and something in his stomach immediately tightened painfully.

Juniors didn't react, though. Pain was not unbearable to him. It was simply a feeling. And an interesting one at that. Even his own was something that brought a certain amount of joy.

" _If Tim can hold it for hours, so can you. Focus on the chemicals."_

"Come on," Dick sighed, starting to stand, "I'll take you."

The man spoke as if to a young child. But Junior shrugged.

"Never mind," he said, "I'm not _allowed_ to go anymore."

All _he_ was allowed to do was _focus_ on _chemicals_.

Baking soda, sugar, white phosphorus, etc… chemicals. Good chemicals that would burn the stew out of anyone that touched or breathed it in when mixed together. A nice, painful weapon, but Junior, or rather, _Jay,_ was more interested in the smoke it created. Lots of smoke made getting out of the cave and out on the streets much easier.

Getting passed trained ninjas was no easy feat, though. That was why Jay would handle that part. Junior just had to gather the chemicals without, somehow, getting them confiscated. A problem that Junior would have a field day accomplishing.

"Where are you going now?" Dick asked, wearily.

For about an hour, Junior had been pacing back and forth in random directions with no true aim or purpose. He hadn't stabbed anyone ( _yet_ ) and he was playing the role of the desultory wanderer so that when he _did_ actually go towards the investigation table, where every chemical Junior needed was held, it would not seem too suspicious.

"Nomads have no direction," Junior sighed, dramatically, "You're gypsy, you understand."

Dick said nothing, but instead of stopping Junior when he got too far, Dick stood up and followed him. Junior had been waiting for Dick to finally get up and tag along. Jay said he would, and Junior had simply been biding his time. With Dick up, Junior had more leadway and a greater distance to travel without the oldest instructing him to come back to his assigned 'watch area', which, in all honesty, was the boring-est of places: the boxing ring.

But now Dick was up, and Junior tread lightly towards investigation table. So far, Jay had been right about everything. From Bruce getting on the computer to Dick eventually standing to stretch his legs. Jay said acrobats, Dick Grayson in particular, could not sit in one place for too long. Either he'd snap for no apparent reason, or he'd stand and walk around with Junior for a bit. Jay was very clear in informing Junior that family ties was Dick's kryptonite. It was why Dick was so silent now. The more he spoke to Junior, the more he saw some distorted version of Tim in him, and since Dick probably wouldn't hurt Tim to save his own life, it made Dick vulnerable and essentially, useless.

It was better for him to be quiet (a real feat in itself) and disassociate himself from Junior entirely, just in case he _did_ have to restrain him somehow. Afterall, it was common knowledge that Junior was insane.

" _Bal-i tteol-eojil_ ," Junior sang aloud _,_ " _ttaekkaji daenseu daenseu."_

Dick did not even blink when Junior approached the investigation table. Instead, he lifted himself up to sit on the edge of it. Junior grabbed a container of sugar immediately, but just as fast, Dick took it out of his hands gently, replacing the sugar in Junior's hands with salt. Junior tilted his head at the older boy who didn't seem to be paying him any mind. The exchange had felt... interesting. Dick had switched the sugar with salt like he'd replace a sharpened pencil with a teddy bear for a child. There was no animosity in the move, almost as if Dick had forgotten he were dealing with Junior, and not Tim.

" _He didn't forget, you idiot. He knows sugar is a catalyst. He doesn't_ _ **trust**_ _you."_

That was alright. Junior didn't trust Dick either. But… it wouldn't have been the worst thing in the world to have an ally. A _real_ ally. One in the real world. But then again, having an enemy is just as fun!

" _Nevermind the sugar, we can get it from somewhere else. Focus."_

Focus. Focus. Focus. That was such an awful, non entertaining thing to do. Especially when it came to work. But it was better _not_ to piss Jay off, even though it was kind of fun. Being set on fire had been an amusing pastime, but Junior preferred not do it again. So he set to work building the formula (minus sugar). It all fit neatly into a vial, and Dick only raised an eyebrow at it.

"That can't be right," came Father Time's voice, and everyone turned to see what he went on about, "Are we sure?"

Staring at the computer over Bruce's shoulder, Father Time covered his mouth. Dick jumped off the table, curious, and Jay's voice echoed in Junior's head.

" _Go over…"_

Junior did not know why or what they could gain from it, but he did as he was told.

" _Junior, stay…"_

Junior paused, closing his eyes. Jay and Tim sounded exactly the same, but the tones were different. Jay spoke with authority, Tim spoke with a pleading in his voice. It sounded weak next to Jay's. Junior was drawn to the stronger voice. It sounded more sure.

" _Stay with Dick… He'll protect you…"_

" _Ignore him. Go."_

" _Stay…"_

" _Junior."_

" _Junior…"_

Junior smiled, taking tentative steps towards Bruce. He liked the chaos in his head, and the idea that whatever choice he made would upset at least one of them was icing on the cake.

It didn't matter in the end anyway. Dick was eager to investigate on his own, and he grabbed Junior by his shoulder, pushing him along faster towards the computer.

"Keep him back," Bruce instructed though, when Junior neared the computer.

Which was fine. It was whatever. Junior didn't care what was on the computer anyway. The family could keep their little secret to whatever it was, and Junior would go on as if it didn't matter. Because it didn't.

" _Ask for tea."_

" _Junior don't…"_

" _Do it."_

" _Junior…"_

"I want tea," Junior announced, and Alfred was more than happy to direct Junior away from the screen.

" _Junior don't…"_

Dick lead Junior back towards the boxing ring, his eyes staring behind him at the computer as they went. There was chaos in Junior's head now, though, and he found it hard to focus on what he was doing and where he was going. Tim and Jay must have been fighting. The headache that came with whoever had just gotten hit in his mind made black dots spot Junior's vision, but he didn't mind.

"Jason, _don't -!_ " came Dick's voice too late.

Junior was struck in the face with something hard, and he spun, falling to the ground and landing in his hands and knees. Dick had spun around to face the other way, his hands in his hair in terror, unable to watch and Junior found that ironic and funny. A light laugh bubbled up from his chest as he shakily reached up to touch the sore spot on his head.

"Jason, you didn't have to do that…" Dick said, reaching down and grabbing Junior by his arm, "He wasn't paying attention."

"He was too close to me," Jason announced, tossing the wrench in his hand back down onto the floor with a light _clink_.

The hand Junior had put to his head came back spotted with blood, and Junior's eyes lit up with excitement. He couldn't help it. Blood was an exciting color.

" _See how they treat us?"_

" _Jason was only being cautious."_

" _He might've given us a concussion."_

" _He_ _ **could**_ _have, but he didn't."_

" _They hate us."_

" _They don't..."_

"I don't care either way," Junior said aloud, stumbling forward as Dick tried to lead him towards the cot.

When Junior spoke aloud, Dick spun around him, kneeling down and gripping both of Junior's arms. His hair was in his face and he looked like one those determined but terrified moms in a kidnapping movie. He was only trying to get back his _precious_ little baby!

"Who are you talking to?" Dick asked, just shy of frantic, "Is it Tim?"

So predictable.

" _Lie."_

" _Don't lie. Tell him I can hear."_

" _Lie, Junior, or you'll never be in control again."_

Junior wanted to give into Tim. He wanted to encourage him to keep fighting with Jay, because if he lost every fight, eventually, he'd stop fighting. Winning every now and then would renew his determination to fight. But since the last fight they'd had, Tim's voice had gone from weak, to a whisper. Jay must've hurt him pretty bad. And Junior didn't want to be next or out of a job. He liked pain, but he didn't want to die. And he didn't want to lose his body privileges, either.

Instead, he smiled at Dick and zipped his mouth close. Blood dripped into his eye, and Dick wiped it away with the sleeve of his shirt, his own eyes sad.

"Tim, if you _can_ hear me," Dick said, grabbing Junior by his arm and leading him towards the cots again, "Then know none of us are giving up. We're all working to right this."

" _Lies."_

No, Junior didn't think so, this time. But, he wasn't paid to think. He wasn't paid at all, but he was rewarded. And the reward of being real, tangible, and in control was worth it.

Right now, he needed tea.

Alfred came through only after Dick had cleaned and stitched the cut on Junior's head. But then, Bruce instructed Jason to watch Junior. Dick was becoming too involved. Too emotionally invested. Jason was more levelheaded, but, he was instructed to leave all the tools behind.

It didn't matter though. With the tea, Alfred brought sugar, and with the sugar, Junior had all he needed.

The little vial was opened and while Jason (a much more lackadaisical babysitter than Dick) had his back turned, Junior combined the chemicals.

Immediately, everything faded to black for Junior as Jay assumed command and pushed Junior back into the recesses of their mind.

The vial shook in Jay's hand for all of two seconds before it burst into a cloud of smoke and quickly engulfed Jay and Jason.

"You little brat," Jason spat, lunging for Jay, but Jay expertly avoided him, "Dick, come help me!"

Jay stuck to the center of the smoke until it spread enough for him to move further away. The smoke spread quickly though, and Jay made a break for it out the cave exit. He left behind Damian, calling out 'Drake', repeatedly. He left a swearing Jason, and a frantic Dick, and a worried Alfred, and a silently searching Bruce. They would all be searching blindly until the generator vents kicked in and filtered the smoke out. By then, Jay would be to the end of the driveway, and there were plenty of places to hide out there when the search party came.

Outside, the winds blew a frigid, stiff wind that made you aware of not much else besides the biting cold in your face. But Jay filtered the pain out expertly. The air smelled like rain, or possibly snow if it were cold enough, and the darkness that accompanied the heavy clouds in the sky added shadows for Jay to hide in. Having never been outside before, his senses were in overdrive, and he breathed in the frozen grass, the lingering warmth from the cave, and nature all at once.

He changed his mind about hiding once he reached the edge of the driveway. The others would surely come his way, and Bruce Wayne was possibly your worst enemy in a game of hide and seek. Jay needed an advantage. And fast. He spent his remaining time putting it together.

Moments later, as expected, two motorcycles sped by ridden by the two oldest brothers, their helmets swiveling as they searched for him. Bruce, Alfred, and Damian came out on foot, and Jay had just enough time to climb a tree after finishing his trap.

Alfred searched slowly, checking every bush and shining a flashlight in every tree. Bruce searched thoroughly and expertly, his flashlight hitting crevices Jay had all considered. Damian searched ahead, his patience low, as Jay had expected.

Pushing himself back against the trunk of the tree he was in, Jay watched Damian search below him. He counted the boys steps and looked ahead to the trap right in front of him.

" _Don't hurt him…"_

Jay smiled, watching time run out for the boy.

" _Don't hurt him…"_

" _You should kill him!"_

" _No-!"_

" _This is better than football."_

" _Don't hurt him…"_

Jay gasped quietly, a shiver running down his spine. He shook his head, steadying his breathing. If Tim wanted control, he was going to have to try a heck of a lot harder than that.

A sharp and surprised cry came from the youngest, and the rope Jay had tied to his branch went taunt. Jay pulled, reeling in the rope, and the youngest. The line twitched and vibrated as Damian struggled on the end of it, but Jay had rigged the line to pull directly backwards and then upwards, a very awkward and difficult position to reach while you were hanging, even for a ninja.

Tim jerked, and it was like being struck by lightning. Everytime he won control of his body, it seemed that his body grew stronger in rejecting him, and the transition took every breath he struggled to gasp in away.

But Tim didn't have time to reflect. Jay would tie an untieable tie, so he grabbed a branch and sawed the rope beside him until it snapped. There was a soft _thump,_ as Damian hit the ground, and Tim strained his ears listening for further movement or a sign of life.

Damian gave a pained inhale, coughing and hacking until he nearly threw up. Bruce was at his side in a moment, questioning him and calling to Alfred. And just like that, the world was darkened, and Tim was thrust back into his mind.

 _He could feel rather than see, he'd pissed Jay off something fierce. But he'd take that beating later if it saved Damian's life. He would not allow that young boy to hang, especially by his own hands._

" _You reeeaaalllyyy peeved him off now, Tim-bo," Junior laughed._

 _Tim only laid down on the cold, white, invisible ground. He was out of breath and his body hurt. It was like a bad fall and a lost fight with Bane all rolled into the flu. Was he sick or just weakening? He didn't know, but something was definitely wrong. The best he could do was rest up. The next time he saw Jay, he'd need his strength._

* * *

"Tim would go somewhere we wouldn't think to find him." Dick stated, his arms folded, "He knows _I'll_ come after him, so he won't go anywhere I know."

"Perhaps he'll go somewhere for comfort," Alfred spoke, "Somewhere he feels safe. Somewhere familiar. He's going through a great deal right now, and he'll be rightly confused. No one knows master Timothy better than us."

"That's all well and good," Jason said, folding his arms, too, "but he's not necessarily 'Tim' at the moment. He's got two whole other personality things going for him right now."

"We know he's struggling to control this _,"_ Bruce added, "but we don't know what what his other personalities want."

Everyone talked at once, throwing ideas around and trying to find a direction to begin in. No one had been able to find Tim, or even a trace of him. Meeting back in the cave, they'd conferred and tried to come up with a plan.

Damian had been silent through the entirety, though. His near hanging had not traumatized him, he'd been through worse, but the situation had gone south very quickly. Stopping Drake from killing himself. Watching him change so drastically from a maniac to a hysterical victim. Hanging. It was a lot to take in. Even for him.

But, Damian had had, possibly, the longest conversation with actual Tim. If Tim was in control, Damian probably had the best clues as to what he'd do.

"He's going to kill himself," Damian muttered, quietly and to himself, but all eyes whipped to him.

"What did you say?" Dick snapped.

"I said he's going to kill himself," Damian repeated, looking up at the watching eyes on him, " _That's_ what I didn't tell you about that fight. I told you we'd fought, but I didn't say about what. All that time, i'd been keeping him from killing himself."

"Kinda seems like something you ought to mention." Jason uttered.

"Why wouldn't you _tell_ us that?" Dick threw, looking up exasperation and running his hands through his hair. " _God_ , Damian."

"I _couldn't_ speak about it, Grayson!" Damian defended, "None of you saw it, so none of you understand what I saw. He was _completely_ out of control. He was dark, and hysterical, and…"

And scary, was what they all knew Damian meant to say. The boy wouldn't admit it, but something in Tim had seriously frightened him.

"We've got to find him _now."_ Dick announced, leaving to change his clothes.

* * *

"We'll split up," Batman instructed, fastening his belt around his waist, "Nightwing'll take uptown. Red Hood, downtown. Shadow, you sweep center city, and I'll search the docks. Alfred keep eyes on our monitors and I'll have Oracle sweep the streets in between."

"We'll meet up when we finish," Nightwing added, getting a nod from Batman.

They peeled out quickly, but hoped Tim was found, but no one really wanted to find him. Whoever found Tim would face him alone, and there was no telling what state he'd be in. Psychotic, delusional, or broken, no Tim was a good Tim right now.

Jason in particular felt his stomach tighten. It did that whenever he thought of the kid, now. Every image he'd ever had of Tim was tainted and distorted by some new-found guilt. Telling Tim Dick didn't trust him. Hitting him with a shoe. All the insults and jabs and verbal abuse he'd thrown, and at what? A shaken, defenseless child. Tim had been fighting his own demons. He hadn't needed Jason's extra crap. And even though Jason knew that, he still found it acceptable to hit the kid in the head with a wrench…

Having watched Tim stagger, blissfully unaware and irrationally entertained by the blood gushing from his head had nearly made Jason sick.

Jason wouldn't take claims on making Tim as sick as he was, but he didn't deny that he'd been no help in making him better, either. But now was the time for redemption. Now was the time to let bygones be bygones, and to really show what family was. Because when the smoke cleared and the ink dried and the fat lady sung, Tim was one of them. Always had been, even before his old man had bit the dust.

It was just a shame that it had taken so long to prove it. But that was life. The most opportune moments at the most inopportune times.

The search went much faster than anyone had expected. Only a few hours in and Red Hood and Nightwing had already finished sweeping their assigned areas. It was hard to find a person you didn't know. A person who'd given no indication of a plan or even the ability to form coherent sentences. A person with the ability to have three fully developed and vastly different emotional spectrums.

Red Hood and Nightwing met up and Batman had sent them to the graveyard. A wonderfully cheerful place that time of year.

"Gotta love graveyards," Jason said, stepping over a tomb and shining his flashlight on the names.

"Red, don't step-" Nightwing sighed, shaking his head, "Nevermind."

Nothing gave Red Hood a bigger kick than when Nightwing gave up trying to make him behave. You win some, you lose some.

"He won't leave a clue on just any tomb." Nightwing said, "We'll only check ones with people we know, to save time."

"What makes you think he's leaving clues?" came Shadow's voice.

The boy jumped down from the tree he'd clearly grappled in on, and adjusted his cape.

"Because Tim still has brief bouts of control," Nightwing said, "Any time Tim gets in control, he's going to devote it to helping us find him. He needs us, and he knows it. We just need to figure out what he's left behind to talk to us with."

On one hand, Shadow didn't think Tim had barely any time in control now. Those 'bouts' as Nightwing put it, came less and less, and they lasted shorter and shorter. The green eyed Junior and grey eyed Jay seemed to have more control more often. One the other hand, though, who else would cut the rope to save his life? If Jay or Junior had been in control, Shadow didn't doubt that they'd let him hang.

Turning his own flashlight on, he began studying graves. Most people found graves scary and creepy and unsettling. Standing on top of people who'd lost their lives… people murdered, slaughtered, and unlucky… it did play with you mind a bit. But when Batman was your father, you practically grew up between golden galas and muddy graveyards. It was in the job description, actually.

Being the son of Bruce Wayne, Shadow had met a lot of rich and important people. Being the son of Batman, Shadow had met a lot of crucial and interesting people. Presidents to scientists, Shadow had met then all. It was why he knew so many names in the graveyard. People he'd saved at one time, and people he'd hated while they'd been alive.

A silent _thump_ landed near Shadow, and any normal person would convince themselves that the sound had been all in their head. Shadow knew better though, and he didn't even bother to shine his light on Batman.

"What brings you by," Nightwing asked, knowing Batman wouldn't show up to an area already being searched unless something lead him there.

"Intuition," Batman said, and Red Hood scoffed at the idea.

It was an almost laughable answer, but then, it did not come without reliable weight. More times than not, Batman's intuition was more accurate than any calculated solution. And right on cue, white chalk hastily scribbled on a tomb in an odd pattern caught Shadow's attention.

"This is marked." came Shadow's voice.

"This one, too." Nightwing added from a few feet away.

"But why mark tombs?" Red Hood asked, "This doesn't make any sense."

"Might be symbolic." Batman said, grimly, taking pictures of the marks, "Could mean death. Could support Shadow's theory that he's suicidal, and this could be him making a sick pun of where we'll bury him."

" _Or,_ " Nightwing interrupted, "He would suspect that we'd check the graves early on and just wants us to find him quickly."

"Not quite the mindset of a suicidal victim," Red Hood uttered.

"We're not just dealing with him alone." Batman said, "We're dealing with someone with multiple personalities."

A fact everyone seemed to keep forgetting.

"So how do we piece together clues from someone who has three separate minds?" Red Hood asked, "Not like we can ask him."

Batman sighed, unable to answer.

"Back to the cave," he announced, "Hopefully this will point us in the right direction."

Red Hood and Nightwing left to their motorcycles, while Batman and Shadow left to the batmobile. All the while, everyone thought of the marked graves. A deceased man and woman, both of whom the family had known. But they were two totally unrelated strangers.

The woman, Eliza Magee, had been in her late sixties when she'd died of a stroke. She hadn't been rich, but she'd made a sizable donation to the Martha Wayne Children's Charity and attended the ball that came with her donation yearly. She'd been one of few civilians of the lower class to dine beside Bruce Wayne three times. The charity, it seemed, had been there for her when her daughter had gone through her final stages of leukemia. The charity had provided some comfort to the mother when she felt she'd lost her entire world.

The deceased man, Jonathan Politic, on the other hand, had been a scientist. He'd died at an early thirty-two, due to a rare genetic disorder that made his muscle tissues deteriorate unnaturally. Ironically, he hadn't devoted his life to finding a cure for himself. He'd devoted it to finding artificial alternatives for people with bad kidneys. A solution that didn't require the use of a transplant or a donor. Bruce Wayne had met him in a cab one night when Alfred couldn't pick him up from work. The morning after their meeting, Jonathan Politic had received a great sum of money to assist his funding. He hadn't found a working solution before he'd died, though.

Just because the two seemed unrelated, it didn't mean they were. The moment the family reached the cave, they all set to work on figuring out what the common variable was. Starting with the odd, broken looking symbols Tim had left on the graves. Bruce uploaded them to the batcomputer, and everyone stood around trying to make sense of them.

"Tim's smart. We know that." Dick said, staring up at the screen, "So it's safe to say that if Tim was in his right mind, his clue would have multiple meanings. He likes irony and double entendres."

"Junior is less straightforward," Bruce said, leaning back in his chair, "He's lightheartedly eerie, but cheeky."

"Like the Joker." Damian stated, getting a short hum from Bruce.

It was what they all were thinking, but too afraid to ponder too much about.

The Joker liked things loud and right in your face. The effects of even his simplest pranks could be deadly. For a stunt like this to play out for so long...? If the Joker had anything to do with it, the effects on Tim could be irreversible.

"This Jay fellow is more serious, though," Alfred contradicted.

"He's the one with an agenda," Dick said, "You can tell by the way he moves. He's the one calling the shots."

"The problem is," Jason said, "We don't know what his goal is. What, exactly, he wants from Tim."

The questions kept coming and the uncertainty kept building. Everyone knew Jay and Junior had major influence over Tim, even when Tim was in control. It made trying to sunder out the Tim they knew that much harder.

"I know what it is," Jason said, leaning over Bruce to type on the keyboard and rearrange the images.

"A hazard sign." Damian stated, watching Jason rotate, shrink, and flip the scribble until he could put the image pieces together.

"A _chemical_ hazard sign," Alfred stated, "Like at Ace chemicals."

"That's not the whole sign, though." Dick said, motioning to the image, "It's missing a piece."

"Who cares?" Damian tsked, "We're all smart enough to infer what it is."

"That's great," Dick said, "But where's the other part of the image drawn? It wasn't in the graveyard. That could be important…."

"Get to work on Eliza and Jonathan," Bruce instructed, standing up, "I want to know everything about them."

Everyone nodded, pulling out their own personal devices for research. Tablets, phones, and laptops flashed as everyone set to work researching two dead people that may have held the key to Tim's whereabouts.

* * *

 **Kay, so, the story is officially finished and chillin' in my Google Docs just _waiting_ to be shared with the world! I believe there are four chapters left, but don't quote me. Anyway, there's a three day weekend coming up and I can't leave you guys with nothing to read so everyday until this story is finished, I'll be uploading a new chapter, starting right NOW. **

**Stay posted guys, and stay whelmed.**

 **TheForgottenName**


	21. Shot Through the Heart

_:_ _ **. - . - . - . - . - . - .:**_

 **A 13 year old Tim fell to the ground. The roundhouse kick Bruce hit him with nearly always caught him off guard. He'd been training for months and still, he hadn't been able to land one hit to his instructor.**

 **He'd beaten Alfred easily enough, but no matter what he did or how he came about his attacks, he just couldn't touch Bruce. It frustrated him, and angrily, he jumped up from the ground and charged Bruce.**

 **One uppercut later and Tim was leaning heavily against the rope surrounding the ring he was training in. He grit his teeth and bawled his fists up.**

" **I can't do it." he spat, unwrapping the tape from his bloody hands. "I can't even touch you."**

" **Out on the streets, that means you're dead." Bruce said, folding his arms.**

 **Tim shrugged angrily. Maybe he wasn't cut out to be a hero. His father was a criminal, and that life had suited him well enough not to make him give it up. Maybe Tim was destined to go down that road of life as well...**

" **Don't quit, Timmy." Dick said from the sidelines, having watched from there. "You can't quit. You can't ever quit."**

 **Tim sighed, slowly wrapping his hands back up to continue the fight he knew he'd lose.**

" **What do you do when you're up against someone you know you can't beat?" he asked, looking up at Bruce.**

 _:_ _ **. - . - . - . - . - . - .:**_

* * *

 _Tim couldn't let this beat him. He couldn't let this overcome him. He couldn't give up._

 _The white world he'd just become accustomed to was black now. Pitch black, with only a harsh light above him, making him sweat._

 _After saving Damian from hanging, Jay had changed everything. He'd bound Tim to a chair under the light, thick straps digging into his skin and blistering into open and painful cuts. Junior had spoken up, a smile on his face as he suggested letting Tim fight for the right of control again._

 _He'd meant it as a joke, of course, but Jay had seen it as a threat. The short, silent fight had happened behind Tim, and he hadn't seen exactly what had happened. But Jay had dragged Junior's body in front of Tim a moment later, and left him on the dark ground where Junior hadn't stirred since._

 _At this point, Tim suspected Junior was probably dead._

 _But Tim was still alive, and he had a lot to fight for_. _He pulled at the restraints holding his wrists. There was pain. Immeasurable pain as the binds dug into his skin and tore at his flesh. But this pain wasn't real, he reminded himself. This pain was only in his head. It was the pain of a nightmare. The agony of hitting the ground after falling in a dream. The discomfort of being shot in a dream._

 _This was pain he could handle._

" **What do you do when you're up against someone you know you can't outrun?"**

 _Tim pushed at the force holding him down and captive in his mind. It felt like an elephant sitting in top of him and he struggled to remove it. He grit his teeth, steeled his nerves, and grunted as the force pushed back at him._

 _He knew what Jay was up to. He knew what Jay wanted to do. He knew where Jay ultimately wanted to go. And he knew every step Jay would take to get there._

 _Tim turned around, seeing the chair he'd escaped from. Jay had once told him that killing himself would be a bad idea. He told him that his death would mean the death of both of them._

 _Tim picked the chair up and smashed it on the ground, breaking it into smaller pieces. He grabbed a long splinter from the leg of the chair and he rammed it into his chest without a second thought._

" **When you're up against someone you know will kill you?"**

Tim woke to the feel of cold, biting air rushing past his face. He reacted before he realized he was falling, and somehow, he found himself slowly grappling down to the street.

Rain pelted his head and he looked around himself quickly. He knew he didn't have much time before he blacked out again. He knew where Jay wanted to go. But how did he let his family know in a way that didn't draw the attention of Jay and make him erase whatever evidence Tim wanted to leave behind?

The smell of wet dirt filled his nose and he turned to see Gotham Cemetery behind him.

It was as good as he could manage at that point. He was fighting with himself. A force he'd never prepared himself to fight with. A force that proved it was stronger and had more control than him.

" **When every odd is against you?"**

But Tim had learned over the years from all the people that mattered the most to him, that when faced with a better foe, there was only one thing you could do...

* * *

 _:_ _ **. - . - . - . - . - . - .:**_

" **You fight, Tim!" Bruce yelled, clapping his hands together rhythmically.**

 **Rhythms and patterns were Tim's boosters. The constant, unchanging tempo of a beat, or even a simple clap, gave him a pulse to fight to. It gave him something to keep him grounded. Keep him strong and alert. Something still and confident and continuous, despite the uncertainty in a fight.**

 **Tim wiped the blood from his mouth and dodged back as Dick sent a barrage of hits and kicks his way.**

 **This was Tim's twelfth time fighting his brother and Dick had made it perfectly clear early on that he was not going to go easy on him. He came at Tim hard, and fast, and with a precision Tim hadn't appreciated until he had to dodge them.**

 **But Bruce kept on clapping. He clapped louder when Tim took a hit. He clapped harder when Tim found he had the upper hand. He clapped softer when Tim went on defense.**

 **That beat made him stronger. It made him feel faster. It made him think further ahead. Dick's smile doubted Tim's ability. But Bruce knew he could do it. He clapped and clapped, giving Tim the only aid he could allow, and with it he showed Tim he believed in him. He trusted in his abilities.**

 **And Tim trusted in Bruce.**

 **Two moves later, and Dick was pinned to the mat.**

 _:_ _ **. - . - . - . - . - . - .:**_

* * *

Ace chemicals was always being broken into. Plenty of criminals needed unstable compounds and chemicals and Ace was the best place to get them. Security was never the best, despite how often it was broken into, and glass ceilings made for easy entry.

Every fight at Ace meant a long, explosive night.

"Split up," Batman said, dropping down onto a rafter, "Shadow with me."

Batman and Shadow disappeared and Red Hood followed Nightwing down to the ground. Hardly any security and useless lighting meant the two of them could travel quickly. Nightwing's main objective was to find Robin.

Whatever happened after that happened.

They'd come to a troubling conclusion about the tagged graves of Jonathan and Eliza. Both had to do with Bruce.

As far as they knew, Eliza and Jonathan were unrelated and had never had dealings with each other, but, they shared Bruce Wayne in common. Bruce had helped Eliza, by supporting the charity that cared for her daughter. Bruce had also helped Jonathan, by supporting the medical research Jonathan had been conducting.

Eliza and Jonathan were similar cases, though. Elizabeth had done all she could to save her daughter. Dick discovered that she'd sold all of her grandmother's antique furniture and jewelry that she'd inherited, in order to help pay for treatments.

While Jonathan hadn't done research for a cure for himself, he'd devoted his life to finding a way to replace bad kidney's, which, incidentally, his ten year old niece had needed. With no donors available for the young girl, Jonathan had begun looked to find an alternative for her. The young girl ended up dying not too soon after Jonathan did.

Both Eliza and Jonathan had been helped by Bruce in some way. Both Eliza and Jonathan had made sacrifices for someone they loved. Both Eliza and Jonathan had lost someone. Both Eliza and Jonathan were dead.

It drew a dangerous parallel that Nightwing didn't want to think about.

Bruce had helped Tim as well, by bringing the boy into his home and caring for him. Bruce and Tim both made sacrifices for the city of Gotham. Both Bruce and Tim had lost their parents, people they cared for. But, in contrast to Eliza and Jonathan, Bruce and Tim were alive. For now.

"Don't make me hit you," Red Hood spoke, lowly, and Nightwing shook his head.

"I'm fine," he told his younger brother, "I'm focused."

"Sure you are."

The two made their way through the factory, their eyes peeled for something out of place and Tim-like. Honestly, Nightwing found it hard to imagine Tim coming here on his own. A skinny, messy haired kid, in ripped jeans and a t shirt, breaking in and tampering with something illegally. He was _entirely_ able, but Nightwing still couldn't picture it.

Half an hour into the the search of the enormous building, and Nightwing only began doubting more. That is, until the ground shook and the sound of falling debris and small explosions shook the building.

Red Hood and Nightwing took off towards the cause before the sounds died down, and they reached one of the large, mixing rooms just in time to knock Shadow out of the way of some falling beams. The dust cleared quickly in the ventilated room, but when it did, it did not reveal good news.

"Today just got better," Red Hood said, sarcastically.

"What in the world…" Nightwing breathed, looking up at the transparent sphere Batman was now trapped in.

Suspended in the air in what looked to be a glass bubble, Batman inspected his new environment. He stomped lightly, checking the material, and then felt along the top of the bubble, most likely looking for a sign of air holes. He flipped open the holoscreen on his gauntlets, but even from below, his children could see that some kind of interference was causing it to malfunction.

"Can you hear me?" Nightwing called up, and Batman nodded.

He didn't speak, which was not unusual, but also hinted that he had no ventilation to allow him fresh air.

"Let's get him down," Nightwing, pulling a lit escrima stick out.

Batman shook his head, though, motioning above him to the strong, robotic arm that held the sphere high off the ground.

"Come on," Nightwing said, leading his brothers up several poles and ramps to get above the sphere.

Nightwing and Red Hood inspected the arm that connected to the sphere carefully, taking into account how Batman had gotten caught in it and any way to get him out. Tiny wires with red blinking dots lit the connecting piece of the sphere and arm. The only hole in the sphere itself was connected to a thin pipe that lead back to a canister with a skull on it. The two oldest shared a look.

Inpatient as always, Shadow grabbed a batarang from his belt, ready to hack away at the sphere to free his father.

"Wait," Red Hood told him, grabbing Shadow's arm, "This thing is hooked up to explosives."

"And any tremors will set off the gas, explosives, or both," Nightwing said, motioning to the pipe that lead to the poison container, "We can't risk shaking the sphere."

"He's going to run out of air." Shadow said, looking down at Batman, who sat cross legged now with his eyes closed, "There are no vents."

"Well, he's gone into meditation," Red Hood nodded, "He can slow and control his breathing until we figure out how to get him out."

"And how _do_ we get him out?" Shadow asked.

"Look," Red Hood said, leaning onto the sphere and looking closer at the top of it.

"Careful…" Nightwing warned, watching the nozzle on the gas pipe rattle slightly.

"I see how to get him out," Red Hood said, "There's a slot for a key here."

Red Hood set to work picking the lock, but a few minutes passed before Red Hood gave up and got off the sphere.

"Can't pick it," he announced, and Shadow sighed loudly.

"I'll do it, then."

"Don't bother," Nightwing told him, "If Red Hood can't do it, you can't. We've got to find the key."

"We don't know where to look," Shadow said, and Nightwing shook his head.

"No, we don't. So we'll revisit what we do know."

"The tombs," Red Hood groaned, "Great."

"We have to find that missing piece of the Ace symbol," Nightwing said, "We know what we're looking for. We just need to find it now."

* * *

Tim was above another graveyard. This one small and private and personal. He knew it well. He'd visited with Dick many times, and even on his own sometimes, just to pay homage to the acrobats parents.

They had lost their lives, but they had given Tim someone truly important to him. And he was grateful.

Tim had blacked out before he could finish writing his clue in the first graveyard, but he'd forced himself back into control and here was a good place to finish his clue. He had to finish it, because if he didn't, his family might pay the ultimate price. And that was unacceptable.

Jay was not happy. Tim could feel him screaming and beating at the mental walls Tim had enslaved him in. It gave Tim a headache, and he stumbled into the graveyard feeling sick and weak.

But he would not give up. And he would not give in. He'd forced himself into control, and that was because he fought. He _had_ to fight.

* * *

 _:_ _ **. - . - . - . - . - . - .:**_

" **You fight, and you fight hard." Alfred said, dropping into a battle stance.**

 **Tim was still hesitant about fighting sweet, elderly, Alfred. But he nodded his head anyway. Dick had warned Tim earlier about underestimating Alfred, but Tim didn't see any other way to look at the man.**

 **20 minutes into the spar and Tim understood. Alfred didn't move as fast or as strong as anyone Tim had studied, but every move he did make seemed perfectly calculated and flowed perfectly into the next move. It was clear that Alfred fought with his brain, each move thought about five moves in advanced.**

 **Alfred threw him to the mat roughly, and Tim rolled to his feet. The man wasn't going easy on him. But that was okay. Tim didn't want him to.**

 **Squaring his shoulders, Tim ran at the man, prepared to give his all.**

 _:_ _ **. - . - . - . - . - . - .:**_

* * *

Tim threw up all over a faded, plastic horse by the merry-go-round. His legs shook and he felt like passing out. But that would give power back to Jay, and he couldn't let that happen.

Tim didn't know how he got to where he was or how long it took or if he'd come into control at any time during the journey, but he recognized the area immediately, and it left a taste in his mouth more sour than the vomit.

Joker's hideout was an abandoned amusement park, and it was beyond creepy. But Tim didn't let that slow him down. He pushed on the mask he had in his pocket and made his way to the funhouse. Joker usually hung around there.

But then he froze and turned on his heels, jogging in the opposite direction. He didn't want to see the Joker. He needed to get _home._ He needed to get as far from the Joker as he could before Jay took over. Whatever Jay wanted to see the Joker for couldn't be good, so Tim tried his best to foil whatever plan Jay had.

Tim had only made it to the abandoned street before his breath was stolen, his body aching, and weakly, he fell to the ground.

 _When he sat up, the ground was pure white, indistinguishable, and limitless. Jay had taken control again._

 _It was a sad, but now common truth. Jay was most likely on his way to get into all kinds of trouble, but Tim could not take control back. Not yet, anyway. Every time he took control, it became harder and harder. He needed to gather his strength before even trying first._

 _Shakily, he got to his knees and finally to his feet. He wobbled unnaturally, but kept his balance. There was something… painful in the air. Something weak and almost pathetic. He could feel it. It didn't pulse fear, though it was hurt. Instead, it radiated exuberance. An ironic, depressing kind of joy that Tim had come to recognize as Junior._

 _Tim spotted his clown twin far off behind him, and shakily, he made his way to him. Junior was, without a doubt, crazy. Hearing his voice in Tim's head constantly, seeing him pop up in dark corners randomly… it had been a nightmare. But the more Tim got to know Jay, the more Tim was able to diagnose Junior._

 _If Jay and Junior were versions of him, then Junior pulsed a side of Tim that he'd believed he'd locked away forever. A side of him that got a kick out of not checking his grappling rope before swinging off. A side of him that welcomed the position of underdog in a fight. The side of him that made mental jokes at the insults Jason and Damian threw him._

 _Junior was silly, and wild, and loose, and chaotic, and everything Tim decided the bat-family did not need. It was a childish side of him that masked his insecurities. Making jokes when he felt uncomfortable, laughing when someone asked him a question he didn't know the answer to, resorting to petty name calling when a situation seemed too 'adult'. It was a side of Tim that Tim had outgrown._

 _He didn't need it anymore. He had something better. Sarcasm._

 _Junior's presence hid pain and fear. A fear that Jay exhorted. Unable to properly show fear, Junior could do nothing but laugh and play off the discomfort. But truthfully, he'd been terrified of Jay, and that had been a factor in his chaotic behavior. It had driven his madness and, in effect, Tim's._

 _Reaching Junior, Tim knelt down to him. He hadn't moved since Jay had dropped him._

" _Junior," Tim said, rolling him on his back._

 _Junior woke from apparently sleeping. He dripped blood from the corner of his mouth, staining his pale face, and Junior had clearly tried to stain it into a smile. But that was the only indication of injury that he showed. His permanent smile faltered and wavered, contorting in pain every few moments. Tim almost felt sorry for this unreal hallucination. It acted out and misbehaved because of fear, like a mistreated orphan._

 _Junior held all the pain Tim had ever known, and it explained why physical pain had very little effect on him. All the kicks and punches and pain Junior and Robin had been through was nothing compared to the memories, insults, and loss they'd experienced in life._

 _Junior was why Tim could feel no emotion in this dreamworld; it was because Junior held it all, hiding the negative behind a broad smile and a joke._

" _I'm gonna try and heal you," Tim said, trying to summon the power he'd used to create his dream world._

 _Whatever Jay had done though, blocked that power, and Tim strained uselessly._

" _Knock knock," Junior said suddenly, his voice raw and raspy._

" _Save your strength," Tim told him, looking at his hands and trying to summon some energy._

" _Say 'who's there'" Junior pushed, "Say the joke with me."_

 _Tim hadn't realized just how childish Junior truly was until now. How naive and simple he thought. Before, Tim had been afraid of Junior. Terrified, really. But here, he saw Junior for who he really was. Just a frightened child._

" _Who's there?" Tim asked, grabbing Junior's shoulder and sitting him up when he began choking on the blood in his mouth._

" _Water…" Junior wheezed, gasping in air._

" _Junior," Tim began, about to tell the boy to forget the joke and focus on breathing._

" _ **Water**_ _," Junior said again, though, emphasizing the word._

" _Water who?" Tim sighed, and Junior's began laughing weakly, already tickled by his own joke._

" _Water we do now?" Junior finished, and the moment he did, his body began convulsing, which he hid behind a laugh._

 _Seconds later, Junior stopped moving entirely, officially dead. His eyes were troubled, but his smile had returned to his face, brought on by his own joke._

 _Tim began laying his hallucination down gently, but dropped him the last few inches when, like a bullet to his head, emotions rained down on him. Fear, happiness, anxiety, relief- all the emotions Junior had kept bottled up and hidden behind a chuckle went pouring out on Tim, and the waves hit him hard._

 _Laying down beside his dead mirror image, he closed his eyes as tears fell down his face. Thinking and getting control back would be much harder now that emotions were thrown into the mix._

 _Needless to say, though, that didn't mean he shouldn't try._

* * *

"This is pretty illegal," Red Hood said, watching Shadow dig up the marked grave.

"You both could help," Shadow grit, and Red Hood shrugged.

"You're not doing bad."

The three had searched four different cemeteries, looking for this one unmarked, but tagged, grave. It was, ironically, the cemetery Jason's mother was buried in, a fact Jason hadn't commented on, but clearly bothered him. They all kept themselves focused on saving Batman, though. This grave could save his life.

"Here we go," Nightwing said, jumping into the dug grave and dusting dirt off the coffin, "A man named Ledger. Keith Ledger."

"A tailor from South Gotham," came Alfred's voice over the comm, "Died from unusual circumstances. Cause of death unknown."

"Yadda yadda, guys a total creep," Red Hood said, "That's our guy."

"Last address?" Nightwing asked, and Alfred simply sent the address to all of them.

"Let's fly, guys." Nightwing said, and the three were off.

Nightwing took the lead, as always, but he felt the absence of his missing bird. Missing Tim out in the field hit him at random points, as Nightwing was sure it did everyone, but right now, it seemed especially painful. Racing across town to save Batman, how often did the brothers do that? More often than one would think, and it took all of Nightwing's willpower to focus on the job at hand. Red Hood would kill him if he zoned out again.

"The slums," Red Hood announced when the three landed on top of the building Keith Ledger had previously lived in, "Smells awesome down here."

"The home has not been occupied since Ledger's death," Alfred informed them, "It's untouched."

Which made for awesome evidence.

Nightwing scaled the side of the building, squinting a bit through the rain that had begun falling, and landed on the ground. Ledger had had a ground floor apartment.

"Police!" cried a voice suddenly, "Thank God it's the authorities!"

Nightwing turned around and came face to face with a homeless man. The man had socks duct taped at his wrists and holes cut out for his fingers. He wore three coats, a brown (previously yellow) raincoat, a purple crocheted coat, and a trench coat that added to the man's insane look. His long white beard fluttered in the rain/wind flurry and he grabbed Nightwing by his shoulders and shook him.

"You're the police," the man said, spitting in Nightwing's face as he spoke.

Nightwing didn't react suddenly. He simply pried the man's death grip off of himself.

"We're here to do an investigation," Nightwing explained kindly, "We'll just be checking this building out."

"Let's go, Nightwing," Shadow said impatiently, finally landing behind Nightwing, "We have a job."

"Stay focused," came Red Hood's voice, as he too landed on the ground.

Nightwing knew the two waited to come down because they'd rather he get rid of the homeless man first and not have to interact with him. They were antisocial pessimists. But Nightwing found that often, it was those overlooked that saw and noticed the most. This man _may_ have been crazy, but he was a citizen of Gotham all the same.

"Did you need help?" Nightwing asked the man, and his brothers sighed, and Shadow made his way into the building on his own.

"Of _course_ I need help!" the homeless man yelled, grabbing Nightwing's shoulders again, "I need protection! Protection from that boy. He's _insane_!"

"We don't protect people from invisible kids," Red Hood said, approaching Nightwing, dead serious on reminding Nightwing to stay focused again.

"He wasn't invisible," the man said mostly to himself, "He was _real_. Famous. I've seen him on the tube before with his friends."

"Right," Red Hood said, grabbing Nightwing's arm and pulling him back, "Well next time he tries to get you, turn the TV off. _That_ should help."

"He was dragging bodies behind him!" the man yelled at their backs, "The Wayne boy hid them in that building! I know why you're here! He's a _killer_!"

Now it was Nightwing's turn to grab the man's shoulders. He broke from Red Hood's grasp, and bent down to look the man in his face.

"You said the Wayne boy," Nightwing spoke, "You saw him?"

"I've already said too much," the man said, biting his fingernails now, "But I need protection, Earnest. We should tell him. I _told_ you not to… You're a liar, Joey. You and Leslie Ann can just forget that loan now."

"He's talking to himself," Red Hood said, pulling Nightwing back, "Come on."

"What do you know about the Wayne boy?" Nightwing pressed, emotion choking him suddenly and making his voice rise. He shrugged Red Hood's hand off of him, and shook the man slightly, "What did you see him do? When was this?"

" _Wing_ ," Red Hood repeated, grabbing Nightwing rougher, "We've got a mission to finish."

For a moment, Nightwing stared at the homeless man, willing him to make some sense again. Willing him to tell him something about Tim that they didn't already know. Nightwing didn't care that Tim was possibly making a bad name for himself amongst the people of the slums. All he cared about, was getting the boy back.

But the man was still talking crazy, and Nightwing forced himself to pry his hands off of him. Now he was just wasting time.

He followed Red Hood across the street and back to Ledger's apartment. They certainly would need to do a thorough search now.

They climbed in through Ledger's apartment window and into a tiny, dark living room.

Shadow was already in there, his flashlight on as he searched for clues. In an apartment that small, with three experienced detectives, it wouldn't take long to finish the search.

"Smells like crap in this apartment," Red Hood said, going back into the bedroom, "Did Ledger die in _here_?"

"He died on the street," Alfred said, "The only report about it came from a homeless man. Says Ledger had been yelling at himself."

"Hobo's," Red Hood sighed.

"Hey, Nightwing," came Shadow's even voice, and Nightwing closed the rotted fridge he'd been inspecting.

Red Hood came out the bedroom and went into the bathroom where Shadow had been. When Nightwing entered, they both looked up from the bloodied bathtub at him.

No human was in the tub, though, just two, mangled dogs and a ton of flies.

"That homeless man said bodies," Shadow said, pinching his nose.

"He was crazy, Shadow," Nightwing sighed.

"We don't take everything we hear on the street as a fact set in stone," Red Hood added, pointedly looking at Nightwing.

Nightwing didn't care, though. He'd talk to a million crazy people for just one sentence to let him know Tim simply was still alive.

* * *

When Tim came to, he noticed the shift in his mind immediately. There was an empty space there, one that should have been occupied by a frightened, but creepy persona fueled by laughter and riddles.

More importantly, though, was Tim's surroundings. If a ditsy ring leader and a color blind schizophrenic got married, this would be their first home. Black and red and green and purple coated the walls in multiple patterns and shades. Random discarded toys, both for dogs and children, littered the floors and Tim knew that some were most likely live and dangerous. The smell of gunpowder, acid, and air freshener hung in the air like poison, and the Deja Vu that accompanied it made Tim feel sick again. Or rather, Robin, since he wore his mask.

"You were right, puddin'" came a cheerful voice, "He must'a changed just then."

"I know my boy!" returned a second cheerful voice, this one followed by laughter.

Robin blinked, looking to his right and seeing Joker and Harley sitting atop a throne made of explosives and old, vintage cannons. The whole thing was messily spray painted purple and green, and had white flowers painted on with an unusual amount of care. Done by Harley, no doubt.

Robin instinctively took a step back. This was a bad situation.

"Don't be scared, kid," Harley said, flipping off of the pile of rubbish and landing in front of Robin gracefully, "We ain't gonna hurt 'cha."

Robin said nothing. He was calculating how to play his cards. Should he play the victim and bid his time to find a way out, or play the smart aleck and get his terms laid out early? Plan A brought him time and saved him punishement, plan B would most likely end in pain, but would get him out sooner, should he manage to escape.

"This kids a bit quieter, ain't he, Mr Jay?" Harley asked, and Joker shrugged, coming down off his throne.

"That's the bat-brat," Joker observed, walking away and to a table, "You can tell by the pole up his butt. Makes him stand all rigid-like."

"He does have good posture," Harley said, straightening her slouch momentarily, "Kind of sad that he stands like that."

"That's why we've _liberated_ him," Joker said, picking a gun up from the table and loading it, "We've freed him from the influence of that stuck up rat with wings."

"He don't _look_ liberated…"

"In time, Harley, in time," Joker said, approaching the two, "Right now, _millions_ of brain cells are attacking his psyche. They'll eat away at his conscious until all that's left, is our little Junior."

"Junior is dead," Robin said, finding his voice suddenly.

It was a spoken truth he wished he hadn't spoke, because immediately, Joker's smile darkened.

"Come again?" the clown asked, and Robin found himself actually wishing for a blackout right about now.

"Junior is dead," he repeated, though, steadying himself, "Jay killed him."

"Well as long as we've got Jay," Joker shrugged, taking the safety off the gun and pointing it at Robin's head, "Shame, though. Junior was my favorite."

"We can get him back, though," Harley spoke, "Right, puddin'?"

"'Course," Joker told her, closing an eye and aiming at Robin, "We can do whatever we want with our puppet."

Joker lowered the gun, suddenly, and tossed it to Robin.

"Take that, kid," he said, "You'll need it."

"He won't suspect a thing," Harley gushed, excitedly, before becoming sad dramatically, "I wish my little laughing babies were here to see this. They _love_ a good laugh."

"Stop worrying about those stupid dogs, Harley," Joker snapped, "They're animals. They'll come back."

"I hope you're safe, poopsies," Harley sighed, "Mommy loves you."

Robin stared at the gun in his hand, his eyebrows knitted together. It was cold and heavy. He'd held countless guns before. Taken them from criminals, dismantled them in training, recovered them for evidence. But never had he held one without justice as the purpose.

But, what was justice but an opinion? What was an opinion but man's majority perspective? If you killed a killer, the number of killers in the world didn't change. A quote Batman enforced. But, if you killed _two_ killers, then the number of killers actually decreased by one. A fact Red Hood never failed to attach to the quote.

How much future pain could Robin save, if he just pulled the trigger in the right direction? How many lives could he avenge if he just broke the rules this one time? One bullet sent towards the tall, laughing clown that would most certainly kill again.

Red Hood would do it. Junior would do it. Even though he was dead, his essence was still inside of Robin. Robin was still all the things Junior had been. Wild, chaotic, rule breaking. What was life if it was spent walking the tightrope of rigid laws? What was justice if it did not plan ahead, or mollify the sins of the past?

Slowly, Robin raised the gun to aim at the heart of the clown that had caused him so much pain. He could feel Jay's disapproval washing over him, but he steeled his nerves. It was bold of the Joker to give him the gun. Undoubtedly, the clown considered this, but did not think him capable.

Maybe it was time to prove just how capable he was.

Joker didn't move, and neither did his smile. Robin held his position, even when Harley stepped in front of them clown her paranoia taking over.

"Don't you dare shoot Mr. Jay," she said, her finger pointed at him, "Don't you do it, kid."

"Harley, Harley," Joker said, smiling and lightheartedly, "Kid won't shoot. He does our every command. Right kid?"

Robin held his breath, wincing and shocked as he nodded uncontrollably at the Joker's influence on him.

This was not the same kind of influence that he had fought before. This was not him battling his other selves. Clearly, the Joker had a stronger hold on him than the influences he'd been fighting.

He hadn't expected that. He hadn't expected the Joker to have _any_ hold on him. He was fighting himself, anything else was just extra.

"Didn't see that coming," Harley joked.

She and Joker both laughed loudly, the Joker throwing his head back and motioning to Robin.

"Come on, kid. Laugh with us!" he said, "It's social bonding."

Tim felt a smile creep onto his face unwilling. He felt that familiar feel of laughter build up in his stomach and threaten to rise to his chest. He shook his head, the gun in his hand shaking, but the laugh came out on it's own, and that only made Joker laugh harder.

"This is better than I thought," Joker said, returning to his throne and collapsing in the seat, "I love this."

"Let's send him on a mission now, puddin'," Harley suggested, "Send him to get some pizza. And some cheese fries. Oh, and a soda! Nothin' diet, either. _Yuck_."

"I got a better one," Joker said, turning in his chair and resting a leg up on the arm rest.

Robin took a deep breath, staring that the gun in his hand. He did not like this position he was stuck in. Unable to leave, and entirely forced to do whatever was asked of him. He could be made into an assassin, if the Joker wanted. Sent out to do the dirty work of the most notorious villain in eastern America. Quite possibly, the world. And who would be sent to stop him, other than his family? At some point, no matter what happened, Robin would cross paths with them.

And with Jay on Joker's side, that could spell horrible trouble for the bat-family

"Your mission," Joker said, pure mirth sitting on his lips, "(And you _will_ accept it). Is to _kill_ , the Batman."

First off, no matter how confident Jay was in his ability to overthrow Batman, Robin doubted he could actually kill the man. Now, could Jay expose Batman's identity? Could he use Dick and Jason and Damian and Alfred against Batman? Was there an infinite number of ways that Jay knew, designed specifically for killing Robin's stand in father? The answer was yes, to every question.

And that would not do. Jay could do enough damage to the family that Robin knew he mustn't allow Jay to even get the chance.

Despite his resolve, Robin's body _did_ want to go. It wanted to leave and find Batman and do as it was told. But Robin swallowed, remembering only good things about Batman. Like how the man squeezed his shoulder after a long night. How the man threw his cape up to protect Robin from bullets, even though Robin could dodge them on his own. How the man used to scold him for not checking the safety of his grappling lines.

Remembering the good helped, but Robin's entire body shook at resisting the command.

"No." Robin said, simply, getting a raised eyebrow from the Joker.

"No?" the man asked, looking to Harley with a growing smile, "Hear that, Harle's? The boy said 'no'."

"Aww," Harley cood, "Trying to be a big boy."

"But he's not a big boy," Joker said, his smile fading, "And playing pretend'll only get him hurt."

"We set the kid free, and all he wants to do is rebel. Kids these days. _So_ ungrateful."

"I'm not leaving here," Robin stated, a bold, but selfless promise.

His toes tensed, and he bounced on the balls of his feet uncontrollably. This was like blacking out, without actually being out. He'd never felt more out of control. Like he was trapped watching his body try and move, helpless to stop it. The gun in his hand shook, but he found his finger drawn to the trigger. He forced himself to breathe each breath, and to add to the pain, Jay pushed at his mind, trying to force him to turn and leave as well. _Jay_ had no problem getting the job done. He _wanted_ to do it.

"Go," Joker said, his permanent smile looking demonic as his eyebrows furrowed in anger. "Go and kill Batman."

"I won't," Robin said, shaking his head.

Sweat poured down Robin's face, and he gasped in the air that his lungs seemed to decline. He held the gun in his hand as if his life depended on it. He ran his trembling free hand threw his hair and backed up clumsily. There was a lack of control in his movements, and Robin could _feel_ Jay forcing him to back away slowly, though Robin fought every step.

"Kid, just do as Mr. J says," Harley sighed, watching him fight with himself, "Promise, you'll turn out better if you do."

"I'm _not_ moving," Robin grit, doubling over when Jay caused a feeling akin to an appendix rupture.

"Go," Joker repeated, louder, "Go!"

Robin shook his head, putting the shaking gun in both hands now. An unnatural smile grew on his face and in an shockingly controlled manner, he stood back up to full height and pointed the gun at the Joker. He was torn. Torn straight in half. He could pull the trigger, though just barely. Jay wouldn't let him do it easily, if at all. If he was going to do it, he needed to do it now. While he still could.

But what would Batman say when he found out? Batman hated guns. He believed anyone who used a gun was a monster. Anyone who considered using a gun was no better than the criminals that killed his parents. If Robin forced himself to pull that trigger, he would be no better than the people Batman swore to bring to justice.

But if Robin didn't, Batman would die. No 'could'. Even with Shadow and Red Hood and Nightwing guarding him, Jay was better, and there was no more kidding himself about it. Jay was smarter and faster and stronger than Robin himself. And Nightwing would hold back infinitely just because it was Tim. Neither Jason nor Damian would kill him, no matter what it cost them in the end

Robin needed to be _dead_ to keep that from happening.

...but his death might be meaningless. He'd already proven that he didn't need to be conscious, or maybe even alive, for Jay to take control. Killing himself now might give full, unending control to Jay, and that was the worst possible option.

"Kid…" Joker began, his voice finally taking on one of caution.

Robin only chuckled to himself, dimly aware of the tears that fell from beneath his mask. Maybe it was the swamp of emotions Junior's death had caused, maybe it was a moment of insanity. Robin didn't know, but he closed one eye, and just like that, the trigger was pulled.

The Joker fell to the ground, sputtering something to Harley before his body went still.

Jay screamed and thrashed in Robin's mind, cursing and declaring vengeance for the death of the man that had created him.

The gun clattered to the ground noisily in the silence that followed, and Robin panted, only then realizing what he'd done. Who he'd killed. And how. Only now did he think of the aftermath. Of Batman. Of the shame and guilt he'd carry around with him for the rest of his life. Only now did he know that no one would ever look at him the same again.

No one looked at you the same after they saw you're breaking point.

Harley slowly came out of the daze she'd fallen into, and turned to him slowly, tears streaming down her own face. Robin looked at her in horror, and only then did his smile finally start to fall.

* * *

 _:_ _ **. - . - . - . - . - . - .:**_

" **You fight, and you keep on fighting." Nightwing said, handing Robin his bo-staff.**

 **Robin nodded, but it didn't help.**

 **A routine kidnap rescuing had proven more than both boys had anticipated. One downfall to disobeying Batman's orders to 'wait for backup' was, you usually needed it. Nightwing had been shot twice in his right leg, and though Nightwing's suit took the brunt of it, and Robin had helped stop the bleeding, the boy was in a lot of pain, and he was practically no help against the angry mob that waited just outside the door.**

 **Nightwing knew he was only a hindrance at this point, but he was determined to get the young girl who sat beside him crying out to safety. The only problem was, the one door to the outside was behind the group of thugs that currently wanted them dead.**

 **The only obvious plan was for Robin to go out, clear a path for Nightwing to get through with the girl and then escape himself. They could wait for backup, of course, but the thugs were already banging at the metal door and denting it. Backup would be too late. Nightwing pushed the plan because he claimed it'd be a 'great story to tell one day'. But Robin knew his brother only wanted to calm his nerves, so he chose to believe in Nightwing's fantasy.**

 **Nevertheless, there were a lot of thugs out there. And he was only one kid.**

" **You're ready for this," Nightwing said, adjusting his cape, "You can do this. Once you start, don't stop. And do not start thinking. You hear me? You get so caught up in your head, but don't do that. Just listen. Listen to the rain outside. Hear that beat. And fight. And fight. And keep on fighting, you understand?"**

 **Robin nodded. He wouldn't fail his brother.**

 **He'd been so focused that when Batman finally arrived, Robin had hit him in the head thinking the man was a thug. He hadn't even noticed he'd cleared the room.**

 _:_ _ **. - . - . - . - . - . - .:**_

* * *

Tim stumbled out into the street. This close to Joker's hideout, the streets were empty, no one daring to come this close to Joker's home.

Tim held his leg for a moment, unsure as to why it hurt like it did. It gushed blood, but he had no idea why. His whole suit was soaked in blood when he looked down at it, but he felt no pain elsewhere and knew it wasn't his.

Wherever Harley was, she hadn't pursued him. If she was dead, it would hardly matter. Once you killed once, what was another time?

It was another life, he reminded himself, shaking his head. He had to force himself to keep his mind clear of the influence of Jay. Every life mattered, even Harley's. Joker was right about one thing, though: Robin's time was limited. Every moment he felt Jay get closer and closer to locking him away forever.

How on earth could Robin stop this?

* * *

 **And that's all she wrote for today. Review and stay tuned!**

 **TheForgottenName**


	22. Wash Me Clean

**And here we go!**

 **Read on, readers.**

* * *

"Tub full of dead dogs." Red Hood observed, "Points for creativity."

"It reeks," Shadow said, stepping back.

"These were Harley's dogs," Nightwing said, squatting down, "They're hyenas."

The puzzle just continued to get deeper and deeper. Why would Tim kill Harley's dogs? Yes, they were obnoxious, and persistent, and they did everything Harley said. But it had always been an unspoken rule amongst the boys not to ever seriously _hurt_ the dogs. Back before Shadow, when they were all a bit younger, and had seriously wanted a dog, Harley's dogs had kind of filled that void. In a weird, messed up and twisted kind of way. Harleys hyenas didn't fetch or roll over when anyone but Harley said to, but, they were fun to outrun and they did put on a good chase if they felt so inclined to.

"There's something in it's mouth…" Nightwing said, opening what was left of the dog's mouth.

It's mangled muzzle was twisted and broken in several places. It would have died an ugly, painful death. Nightwing would be lying if he said this didn't upset him a little.

Nightwing pulled a folded, bloody piece of paper from the dog's mouth and passed it back to Shadow as he went back in for something else. Tucked beneath it's shredded tongue, Nightwing pulled out a small key.

"He put the key… in the dead hyenas mouth..." Red Hood mused, "Kid's a little more messed up than I gave him credit to be."

"I don't know this language," Shadow spoke, looking at the note, and Nightwing stood.

"We'll read it with Batman," he said, pocketing the key, "Let's get back."

* * *

 _:_ _ **. - . - . - . - . - . - .:**_

" **You fight, and you don't stop," Jason said, shrugging.**

 **Tim had asked him how he'd managed to make it living on the streets. As smart as Tim knew he was, he was not sure he could survive on the streets like Jason could. He needed a hot shower every night, and toothpaste, and a toilet, and food. How Jason had gotten along with the barest of essentials astounded him.**

 **The two sat on the roof outside of Wayne Manor. Tim had been walking by a window when something had caught his eye. Sure enough, Jason had been sitting on a ledge, his foot dangling in front of the window, and apparently, he didn't care.**

 **Tim had climbed onto the roof, just out of curiosity. When Jason hadn't pushed him off the roof, Tim asked him a question that had plagued him since learning of Jason's origins: how had he survived before meeting Batman?**

" **It's not easy." Jason said, sucking on his cigarette, "Nothing is easy in Gotham. But the minute you stop caring is the hour you commit yourself to death. You** _ **can't**_ **give up."**

 **Tim nodded, turning to look up at the stars with his brother.**

 **It was one of few good memories he had with Jason.**

 _:_ _ **. - . - . - . - . - . - .:**_

* * *

This was Kenilworth St, Tim recognized. Empty this late in the night, the streets still whispered of nightlife further up the street and closer to the restaurants of downtown. His mask was gone now, somehow, but that meant Tim Drake was stumbling down the street like a drunk. Not good publicity for Bruce, should he get caught.

Tim stumbled and fell to the ground. His leg had given out on him, and suddenly, the pain was borderline unbearable. He touched his leg carefully, surprised at how little blood came up, considering the pain he was in. Further examination, though, showed that whatever wound he'd acquired had been stitched shut and the bleeding was nearly under control.

Proof that Jay didn't want him dead, Tim supposed. Did that prove that Tim's death would be Jay's?

Mustering strength, Tim half crawled, half dragged himself out of the empty street he'd been in and to the side of a building, where he could sit under the jutted out ledge and be protected from the rain.

When had it started raining?

Tim ran his hands through his hair as he thought. Even hurt like he was, he was still a threat. A threat to his family. A threat to innocent people. A threat to himself.

It had all gone on for far too long and he was tired of fighting. But as long as he was alive, he had to fight. He _had_ to. For his brothers. For Alfred. For Bruce.

What wouldn't he give to just send a distress beacon out? What wouldn't he give just to know that someone was coming to get him? Coming to save him?

"No," he told himself, aloud, "Don't think like that."

It was weak, emotional thoughts like that that always preceded a bad blackout episode. He needed to remain focused and develop a plan. He needed a destination. A goal. A cynosure.

The steady rain calmed him, and gave him a beat to steady his racing heart. It also made him cold, though, sending his mind reeling back to that icy swim he'd made escaping the Joker's hideout the first time.

He would never forget that horrible swim. The feeling of that ice water biting his skin… the increasing unresponsiveness in his muscles… the burning in his lungs… the… the burning in his lungs… burning in his lungs…

Tim looking up at the falling rain as he thought a little harder about the thoughts running across his brain.

How determined was he to really put this incident behind him? How determined was he to save and protect his family? When was a good time to stop fighting?

* * *

 _:_ _ **. - . - . - . - . - . - .:**_

" **You** **don't** **stop, until you win." Damian said, wrapping his hands in cloth.**

 **Damian always compared life to life with the assassins. Dick said it was because they had been all he knew, and with so little social experience, comparing things to the league of assassins was his way of learning about the world.**

 **But Dick always had an excuse for people.**

" **And if you lose?" Tim asked, chalking his hands.**

" **Then you're dead." Damian said simply, and for a moment, Tim had to look at him.**

" **You're dead?" Tim asked, skeptically.**

" **Yes," Damian said, beginning to chalk his own hands, "You are killed because you deserve death. You're not good enough for the league if you can't even beat your fellow assassins."**

 **Tim knew Damian had fought assassins twice his height, his age, his weight. Those was conversations Tim was used to having with the boy. He had never heard of the punishment of losing that battle though.**

" **And you just kept on winning?" Tim asked, and Damian looked at him hard.**

" **I'm still alive," he said, before shrugging, "I would deserve death if I had failed."**

" **That's cruel punishment," Tim said, jumping up onto the balance beam, "That's no way to live."**

" **I am aware of that now," Damian said, jumping up in front of him, "But it was the best motivation the league could think of. What is more motivating than fighting for your life?"**

 **Tim said nothing, dropping into a stance. First one to fall off the balance beam lost, and so far, Tim hadn't been beaten by anyone but Dick and Bruce.**

" **I know my ways are not ideal." Damian said, standing still and tall, "And I know now that my life was not what you consider normal. But I won those fights because I had to, not because I wanted people to die. I fought to live, but also, I fought to improve and push myself. I needed to be the best I could be, and I needed to show that I belonged where I was."**

 **Tim said nothing, even when Damian dropped down into a matching stance. In all the time that Damian had been at the manor, that had been the only thing Tim could recall that he could relate to.**

 **He needed to be the best, too. Not just for the sake of it, but because he felt he had something to prove. To the world. To the family. To himself.**

 **Damian moved first and for once, Tim let him get the first hit.**

 _:_ _ **. - . - . - . - . - . - .:**_

* * *

When the odds were against him. When he didn't think he could do it. When he doubted, and hesitated, and overanalyzed every nook and cranny, his family had all taught him to do one very simple thing: _fight_.

He had to fight this.

It was all he knew to do. All he _could_ do. Just one last time.

One more clue to buy himself time, and clear some things up. Batman hated loose, messy ends, and so did he.

Better put it all out in the open now. While he had the chance.

* * *

The key worked perfectly and Batman was freed in seconds. Jay probably hated that Tim had provided this plan b. No one wanted to think of the torture he was going through because of it.

"You had about thirteen conscious minutes left," Nightwing said, looking up at the transparent sphere, "That's a record, I think."

"We wouldn't have taken so long if you hadn't of talked to that hobo for so long," Shadow said, folding his arms.

"I count that as a win," Nightwing said, "The man said he saw Tim."

"Let me see that note," Red Hood said, taking the bloody note from Shadow.

"This was in the dog's mouth with the key," Nightwing explained to Batman.

"It's Romanian." Red Hood said, passing the note to Nightwing, "I think it's meant to you."

Batman led them all out the front doors of Ace chemicals. The security and guards had watched everything from a distance, so there was little need to sneak back out. They were used to Batman and Robin and Nightwing and everyone else breaking in and out at all hours of the day. They knew now to simply stay out of the way.

"'The key of persistence opens all doors closed by resistance,'" Nightwing read in the dim moonlight outside.

"That's John Di Lemme." Shadow said, "It's an old Japanese proverb."

"What does it mean?" Red Hood asked.

"It means that something is being resisted, and something is influencing that thing," Batman mused aloud, "What is Tim resisting?"

"Jay," Shadow answered, "He's fighting to stay in control of himself."

"Now, what is it that's influencing Jay?" Nightwing said, knowing already just where the group was heading next.

"Joker." Red Hood grit.

It was a long ride to the funhouse Joker claimed as a home, but everyone mounted their respective vehicles and sped off down the wet roads of Gotham.

Having Shadow in the car with him was a blessing and a curse to Batman. On the one hand, it gave him the weighty responsibility of keeping the boy safe, which made him focus on his driving. On the other hand, he couldn't focus or concentrate or prepare for what was coming to it's fullest extent.

There was a moderate to high chance that Tim was with the Joker right at that moment. Did Joker know his secret identity already? Was Tim's mind totally gone, now that he was back with the madman that had hurt him so severely? The uncertainty of what awaited them all at the funhouse was almost as torturous as being kept in a clear bubble while your children went out into the dangerous world, risking their lives to save you.

Joker would pay for the pain he'd put Batman and his family through. He'd pay for the pain he'd put _Tim_ through. All the sickness, and the pain, and the nightmares. The voices and confusion and paranoia. The distrust and the lies and the loneliness. The injuries and the screaming and the guilt. Tim had been _tormented_ and _plagued_ for _weeks,_ and he'd kept a majority of it bottled in himself.

Batman pulled the car all the way up to the entrance of the funhouse, the tires squealing and skidding on the rain soaked surface. The motorcycles roared to skidding stops right behind him, but Batman took little note. He was not afraid of the Joker, and the fury of the past few weeks burned in him so bright, he didn't care to knock or sneak in either. Instead, he burst through the front door, Shadow on his tail and Red Hood and Nightwing not far behind.

Lights led the way down a long hallway, and Batman marched down them and into the large room used as what appeared to be a throne room.

Inside, Joker was sprawled across the floor, blood everywhere and soaking his clothes. He breathed uneasily as Harley sopped up blood around a bullet hole. She wore a mask over her mouth and had at some point, changed into a skimpy nurse's outfit.

"Be right with ya," she said, using a long set of tweezers to pull the bullet from Joker's chest.

She began stitching the wound immediately, but Batman saw his chance to force answers from her, and he took it.

Marching up to her, he grabbed her by her arm and hauled her to her feet. Ripping her mask off of her, he twisted her arm painfully.

"Where's Robin?" he asked, and Harley struggled to break his grip.

"Get off," she grit, "I gotta stitch Mista Jay up 'for he bleed to death."

"Tell me where he is," Batman pushed.

"Have a heart, Batsy," Harley tried, "We'll talk later. Promise. My people'll call yours."

A wet, squirting sound make her and Batman look down at Joker. Red Hood currently had his foot on Joker's stomach, and was pressing so hard, blood was beginning to squirt out of the bullet hole.

Harkey screamed, her fight renewed as she beat at Batman's grip on her.

"Let me go!" she screamed, "You can't just let him die! You're _Batman!_ Save him!"

"Tell me where Robin is," Batman insisted.

"I don't know," she cried, "He shot Mista Jay and I stabbed him in the leg. But he ran off aft'a that. I don't know anythin' else! I swear!"

"That's not good enough," Batman growled, and Harley's mouth dropped a bit.

"I'm already swearin', Bats," she shrugged, "What else do ya want from me?"

"Give us a location," Nightwing suggested, grabbing one of many mallets Harley had lying around.

He held the heavy thing above the Joker's head for a bit of encouragement, and Harley tried to headbutt Batman in her fervor to save him.

"My arm's getting tired," Nightwing mused.

"Try the train station!" Harley screamed, "The train station or the hospital."

" _Which_ hospital?" Batman asked, and Harley screamed in panic watching Nightwing shake his arms dramatically.

"The-the _one_. The _Wayne_ one, I mean," she stuttered, "Kid went all wonky before he left. He was laughing and smiling, like my little Junior, my poor baby. He took the bombs with him and _then_ he was _gone_. I swear that's all I know. I swear on Mista Jay's life, that's all I know."

Batman let her go after that, and she dropped to the floor, using the sponges she had pulled out to soak up the blood and began stitching the wound immediately.

"Hang on, Mista Jay," she sniffed, "I'll get ya well again. You'll be your old, laughing self in no time."

"How many bombs?" Nightwing asked, kneeling beside a frantic Harley, "How do we stop them?"

"There's only one bomb, and you can't stop it," Harley said, not looking up from her job, "Only Mista Jay knew how."

"How powerful a bomb are we talking?" Red Hood asked, and Harley chuckled a bit.

"You know that stuff we hit the kid up with?" she asked, "Well, when this bomb goes off, it ain't gonna be fire and smoke everywhere. It'll be gas. And after it goes off, the streets'll be filled with lunies just like your little Robin, and my little Jay."

Batman turned on his heels and lead the way back outside to the cold rain that fell in sheets. The hidden moon made the dark and creepy amusement park look as deranged and confusing as it's owners.

"That was… weird," Nightwing said, looking up at the falling rain, "I was fully expecting a fight."

"We should have dragged her along with us," Red Hood said folding his arms, "Who's to say she doesn't know how to stop the bomb, if there is one."

"There's a bomb," Batman confirmed.

"How do you know?" Shadow asked, "Quinn's word is hardly trustworthy."

"She wouldn't risk Joker's life," Nightwing explained, "When it comes to the clown, she's all business. But Robin shot the Joker in a place he _knew_ wouldn't kill him, so the old him still has _some_ amount of control. Things may not be as bad as they seem."

"It's not over yet," Batman said, "Robin may have temporarily overcome his influence of the Joker, but he's still under the influence of Jay."

"What do we do now?" Shadow asked.

"Now, call the Commissioner," Batman instructed, walking towards the car, "Have both Joker and Harley thrown back in Arkham."

"On what criminal grounds," Shadow asked, already punching in the number.

"On the grounds of kidnapping."

Batman waited for Shadow to buckle in his seat belt before starting the car up. He sped back down the empty road, Nightwing and Red Hood close behind.

"So where to?" Red Hood asked, his voice coming out of the speakers.

"The hospital," Batman sighed.

The Wayne branch of Gotham General Hospital was where Tim's father had died. If he was going to set off a bomb that drove people insane, he would do it first to the people who'd watched his father die.

"Alfred," Batman said, pressing a button on the steering wheel.

"Yes, sir," came Alfred's voice.

"Hack into the Gotham General Hospital and look for high traces of radiation."

"Sir," Alfred said, "It's a hospital. Scanning a hospital that big is going to take time. And filtering through the normal amounts of radiation will take a _lot_ of power. The X-ray machines alone, sir…"

"Just do it Alfred. We're looking for a bomb."

"I'm on it. But the caves power will deplete because of the amount of power I'll be using. I may loose some basic functions on the batcomputer."

"Fine."

"And Alfred," Batman said, "When you find the bomb, try and run a remote chemical analysis. I want some kind of neutralizer, just in case."

"I'll get right on that," Alfred agreed.

"Soon as we arrive," Batman said to Shadow, "Find the head nurse on the ground floor. Have her contact her superior and get the hospital evacuated as soon as possible."

The last thing the family needed was a distraction as big as the one the bomb would cause. Sick, injured, and a newfound crazy usually amounted to body counts. People too sick to move would push aside their health and run off to hurt people. People with broken bones would hurt themselves further by moving carelessly, disregarding the pain. Surgeons with too many weapons at their disposal would have no moral code. Nurses with degrees in medicine would have no conscience. It would be a holocaust.

Tim would be forced to take a backseat in the family's minds, because containing the situation at the hospital would need to take precedence. And that was the situation _only_ if the family figured out how to contain the gas inside the hospital. If the gas got out and infected Gotham, the Fear Gas Scare of 2011, which had claimed over four hundred lives and had taken literally a year and a half to fully clean up, would seem like child's play.

Luckily, or unluckily, Tim knew this.

"I'll search the top floors," came Nightwing's voice, "If it's a big bomb, though, I doubt he'll have it up so high."

"Red Hood you take the middle floors," Batman instructed, "And I'll take the basement."

Most likely, the bomb was in the basement. The bomb most likely contained hot radiation, because it spread faster, and hot air rose, making the basement the prime place to put it in order for it to spread to the entire hospital. The boiler room and cooling units were also in the basement, so the gas could spread through the vents. But again, Tim knew this, so maybe he put the bomb on a level no one would expect to look at.

It was times like these that Batman was glad he had a team.

The moment the batmobile and the vehicles pulled up to the hospital, everyone was running in a different direction. Shadow ran through the front doors. Red Hood began climbing a drainpipe, and Nightwing grappled up to the roof. Batman rounded the corner and jumped through the laundry shoot, where the dryers in the basement let out steam.

Batman broke through the metallic tube he'd descended in before he fell into one of the large dryers. The sound of rain from outside, and a few rolls of thunder, mixed with the rumbling washers and dryers made the basement loud. He turned his mask to night vision, scanning walls and cracks and corners for something too out of place. The basement was dark with no one due to return until morning, though the washers and dryers would be going all night.

Batman tapped his earpiece as followed beneath the vents that ran across the ceiling.

"Alfred," Batman said.

"Right... -ere, sir," Alfred said, his voice breaking up, "You- - bit -taticky, -ough."

"Alfred," Batman repeated, pausing and tapping his earpiece again."

"I'm here, sir," Alfred said, clearly this time, "I've had to shut down the ventilating power grid to get communications back up to speed. Scanning the hospital has taken all but a few functions."

"Have you found anything?"

"Nothing on the top floors yet, sir. I see Master Dick is working down from there. He'll meet Master Jason around floor 26, I suppose. The scan hasn't made it that far, though, so who is to say whether or not they will find something."

"Restart the scan from the basement," Batman said, looking behind as set of loudly shaking dryers, "I've got a feeling it's down here."

"Right away, sir."

"Anything on the neutralizer?"

"I've got a general mild one synthesizing," Alfred said, "It won't help a large number of people, but I'm sending over what I have now just in case. It won't cure whatever damage the gas has caused, either, but it will offset the drug long enough to find a permanent cure. Once I get a sample of the drug it should not take me long to find a cure."

"Heard," Batman acknowledged, pressing his ear piece and breaking the connection.

Not having solved Tim's case, Batman had never seen or been able to get an actual sample of the drug, therefore, finding a cure for Tim had been near impossible. Cross referencing his new DNA with his healthy DNA hadn't shown anything useful, so there was nothing to isolate and improve upon.

Finding this bomb, though, aside from saving the hospital and Gotham, would also help Tim. The gas was just what they needed to find a cure for the boy.

"Sir," came Alfred's voice, suddenly, "Just a heads up, you're not alone in the basement."

"How many?" Batman asked.

"Just one."

It was Tim. Batman was sure of it.

"Anything on the bomb?" he asked.

"Nothing yet. The scan is not complete. The basement is quite an extraordinary size."

Alfred could say that again.

"Keep me posted," Batman said, pressing his ear piece.

He passed rows and rows of giant washer machines, most of them spinning and rumbling and shaking while washing. He recognized the brand easily, since he'd been the one to pay for them to be installed some years back. They were the top of the line F-Series High Extract Machines, or F-She for short. They had automatic chemical injection capabilities to properly remove body fluids, medical machine residue, and other nasty contaminants that needed to be removed from patient clothing.

They were one of Bruce Wayne's smarter buys.

"Incoming, sir," came Alfred's voice, and nearby, a vent shook as something was dropped down it, "That's a small vial of a general radiation neutralizer."

Batman got the vial from a pile of clean sheets and looked it over. It was small, but would probably come in handy at some point in the night.

Batman had been caught up in his mind thinking about Tim, but reality crashed down on him immediately when he spotted a drop of red on the white, sparkling floors. The red drop was followed by two more, then a small puddle, then a few more drops.

Following the blood stains, Batman held out his glove towards them, scanned them quickly as he passed. His wrist flashed three times, indicating what he already knew: that Tim was here, somewhere, and bleeding.

Usually, Batman would call out quietly to the boy so that he didn't startle him. But it was anyone's guess whether Batman would come face to face with Tim or if he'd find himself in conflict with Jay. Of it were Jay present, then the element of surprise would be more in his favor.

In the end, it didn't matter. Wherever Tim was, he no longer felt the need to be quiet. A loud, _clank_ broke the silence and Batman took off, following it. More _clinking_ and _clanking_ and metal on metal sounds shot around, and in only moments, Batman found Tim huddled between two running washers, his entire focus on the metal sphere he had between his legs.

Tim's hair was an absolute horrific mess, and his sweatshirt, (one Bruce had never seen before) was torn and tattered, as were his jeans. Blood bled through his right pants leg, puddling on the floor and running beneath one of the washers. Harley had said she'd stabbed Tim, so that must have been the cause of the blood. Tim should have stitched it.

"This is the bomb," Batman stated, mostly to Alfred, kneeling beside Tim.

His focus _should_ have been on the bomb. It should have been on the red numbers that were currently ticking down from a minute. It should have been on saving Gotham.

And it was, in majority. But being so close to Tim after the overwhelming fear of having lost him at some point was a relief he could not ignore. Being close enough to hear the boys staggering breath, close enough to feel the racing pulse in his wrist, close enough to smell the dank wetness of the city streets on his clothes… It already felt like he'd been granted a miracle.

"I can't stop it," Tim panicked, his voice low and shaking, and Batman immediately was thrust back into reality, "He-he started it, and I didn't see-"

"Calm down," Batman said, taking the sphere from between his legs, "We'll figure it out."

"I don't know how to stop it," Tim apologized, his voice excited and wild, "I don't think it _can_ be..."

"That's Jay talking," Batman said, before tapping his earpiece, "Alfred we've got forty seconds."

"I see you, sir," Alfred spoke, "I urge you to put on your mask and warn the boys. Master Timothy might be right. This type of bomb is unstoppable."

Batman had been afraid if that.

* * *

 **And so it goes. I hear a fight on the horizon, how about you? Its due time, yeah?**

 **Stay tuned!**

 **TheForgottenName**


	23. Fade to Black

"Check the databases," Batman instructed, but Alfred sighed.

"The databases went when I scanned the hospital," Alfred said, "I won't have access in time."

"I know that, I know that…" Tim whispered to himself, rocking back and forth, caught in a conversation he couldn't ignore inside of his head, "...but we can't just let them die… people will _die…_ "

With twenty-nine seconds remaining, the shaking washer beside Batman made him spring to his feet.

The washers were designed to absorb everything, from the bacteria in putrescent feces to the radiation that may have gotten on clothes during an X-ray. If anything nearby could contain this bomb for even a short while, it was one of the washers. The clothes would help absorb the gas, and the machines ability to inject chemicals directly into the wash was a perfect way to add Alfred's general neutralizer.

"Tim, cut this vent off and seal it," Batman instructed, noticing the boy hesitate before jumping on top of the washer to do his job.

It had seemed like an eternity since Batman had given Tim a job. Even Batman felt that. Tim must of felt it ten fold. A little voice in the back of Batman's head wondered whether or not he trusted Tim. Or rather, whether or not Tim was strong enough to subdue Jay. Keeping an eye on the boy took time away from Batman's own important job. Despite that, though, he chose to trust Tim, and was done with seconds to spare. Batman added the neutralizer to the washer and shut the bomb inside just in time. The clock ticked down from three, then two, then one, before instantly letting out a thick green smoke.

"I'm watching on the monitor, sir," Alfred said, "So far, so good. Nothing is escaping."

Batman was watching the washer like a hawk, his entire focus on making sure the green gas stayed contained within the washer. He had to duck down quickly, though, avoiding a high kick thrown by Tim. Tim followed through with a kick aimed for Batman's head, and Batman caught his foot easily.

"Tim," Batman said, holding the now grey-eyed boy's leg while he struggled, "This isn't you."

Tim smirked, his confidence undaunted, as he spun out of the hold with a backwards cartwheel.

"This _is_ me," he spat, "The _real_ me."

Initially startled, Batman reminded himself quickly that this was only Tim's body he faught. Ironically, though, that was the very thing he hoped he didn't hurt too badly. Tim's mind was tucked away right now, but his body still remained.

Tim struck, leaping at Batman with lightning speed kicks. It was a speed and precision Batman himself had to work hard to perfect, and Nightwing was still striving to achieve, which said almost as much as the lucky shot Tim landed to Batman's chin.

The shock factor of getting hit lasted a little longer than a moment. This certainly was not Tim fighting right now, with powerhouse kicks and millisecond jabs. Jay fought, not with his mind, like Tim did, but with instincts. It was a skill Batman had currently been working on with Tim, honing his senses, but seeing it in action like this, _defending_ against it, definitely gave Batman a wakeup call. While Jay was certainly not above Batman in terms of skills and ability, Batman foresaw some trouble ahead. Jay was not above breaking Batman's knee if he could manage it, and Batman would not cause any lasting damage to the boy, putting him at an disadvantage.

He needed to test his boundaries

and pain tolerance. See what lines the boy would cross, what ticked off, what threw him off. One should know his enemy, before beating him. If Batman didn't approach this situation like he did any other, he'd let emotions blind him. And if that happened, there was actually a chance that Jay could somehow get the slip on him.

"You're bleeding," Batman tested, motioning to Tim's leg.

"I am," he said, and Batman didn't fail to notice the little elation in his voice, "Tim very _kindly_ ripped the stitches when I arrived. He thought it might slow me down, but… obviously it didn't."

Jay did not speak like Junior did. Junior said 'we', and 'us'. Jay said 'I' and 'me', and he seemed quite proud of that. Junior had also seen life, the _world_ , as if he'd never experienced it before. Everything seemed new to him and every little thing excited him, much like a child. Jay must feel that same sense of relief and wonder, though he handled it differently. In a nutshell, he, too, was very new to the world.

Maybe that was Batman's advantage.

The lull in fighting made Jay fidget, a fact that didn't get passed Batman. When Jay spun at him with a kick, Batman mimicked it, using his own kick to block Jay's. Batman pushed off of the boy's leg, his strength sending Jay into a backwards spin. Jay only used the momentum to lead a series of punches, each one blocked with a strong, closed fist. Batman waited for his chance to bland a solid punch to Jay's face, throwing him into the cinder block wall. His once confident smirk was now beginning to show signs of frustration and anger.

Running up the wall, Jay flipped backwards, grabbing Batman's arm as he did, and using it to flip onto his back. Batman knew the move immediately, but was a millisecond too late to stop the boy from completing his flip and successfully flipping Batman down to the ground and to his face.

Batman broke the hold quickly and with practiced speed, but not without a small cost. The way Jay had held his arm had made breaking the hold impossible to do without Batman dislocating his shoulder. It was a small price to pay for moving too slow, and Batman merely popped his shoulder back into its joint when he got back up to his feet.

Lucky shots, meaningful kicks, and dislocated shoulders were nothing compared to what Batman usually went through. No, the big deal was how practiced and impeccable Jay's fighting was. Only the most skilled of ninjas and assassins had managed to knock Batman down. Fewer still had managed to dislocate a joint. Seeing Tim (though he really wasn't Tim) move so fast and so precise almost made Batman proud. _Almost_.

He had his work cut out for him, for sure. He still had to beat the boy, without actually _beating_ the boy…

A washer machine full of clothes beside them shook vigorously as it entered the final seconds of it's spin cycle, and Batman allowed his guard to fall just for a moment. Jay took immediate advantage and kicked Batman hard in his stomach. The kick _did_ push him back a bit, but Batman overexaggerated the move, took several steps backwards, and hit the slowing washing machine, pressing the button that made the door open automatically when finished it's cycle.

Jay didn't notice, and he ran forwards, prepared to capitalize on what he hoped was a slightly stunned Batman.

Batman didn't flinch as the washer machine _dinged,_ and the door flew open violently, hitting Jay square in his face. It was a much harder hit than Batman would've felt comfortable throwing, so this was a win on two fronts.

Jay held his face for a moment, shaking off the pain and letting his nose bleed freely and drop down his face.

"Just stop it," Batman told him, something in his twinging at the sight of so much blood falling from his son's nose, "You're _not_ going to win."

"Maybe I underestimated you," Jay said, throwing a splatter of blood across the floor, "But I've only technically been alive for a day. The longer I'm in control, the stronger I get. And at this rate, I _will_ be able to beat you one day. The Joker _will_ call for me again. And Gotham will be a trigger beneath my thumb. You and the family won't be able to stop what's coming."

The scary thing was: he was probably right. "So I'll let this fight slide," Jay said, taking a strong, but cautious step backwards, "And when we meet again, I'll be ready to put you, and anyone else that gets in my way, six feet _under_."

When Jay moved, it was like lightning. Just a flash of movement, but no true direction of where it came from nor where it was headed.

Batman lunged toward him, but Jay had dashed on top of the washer machine holding the discharged bomb, and his ripped the clamp Tim had made out of it's hold. He pushed the hose towards a running AC vent and flipped on top of the boiler, where he shimmied out of the basement through the laundry shoot Batman had come down in.

Jay was gone in seconds, but the gas was still here, leaking green up and into the hospital, where unsuspecting patients were about to have the treatment of their lives...

"Sir!" came Alfred's voice, and Batman pressed his earpiece as he leapt up onto the washer.

"I know," he said, clamping the vent back to stop the leak, "Use the building schematics to track the vent."

"That gas will reach the third floor in _seconds_!"

"Tell the boys," Batman said, putting a rebreather on, "We'll need to quarantine and contain the level."

"I'll be sending over a fresh batch of the neutralizer, as well."

"Is the new batch ready?"

"I've synthesized one based on the chemical's genetic makeup of the gas. It's not permanent _yet_ , but it _will_ temporarily cure them. And when it wears off, the symptoms will be able to be controlled with a mild anesthetic."

That, at least, was good news.

With the washer sealed off again, Batman took off to the stairs and made his way up to the main level. He ran down the empty hallways towards the lobby, where red and yellow lights were flashing.

Shadow must've gotten the floor cleared. But most hospitals, like this one, evacuated the sickest first in the case of a total evacuation. That meant the top floors would be clearing out through the back doors right about now, while the lower floors, level three included, would still be full of people and patients.

"Locations," Batman said, pressing his earpiece and forcing an elevator door open so he could grapple up the empty shaft.

"Level twelve and descending," Nightwing reported.

"Level eight and descending," Red Hood said.

"Outside," Shadow said, "But I'm grappling up to the third floor as we speak."

"Seal off entrances and exits once we arrive," Batman said, getting a sound of acknowledgement from Alfred.

It all happened just as Batman had feared. The gas was released and now Tim, his _son,_ was on the back burner because the family had a bigger emergency. Or rather, a more threatening one.

Who knew what Jay was getting Tim into right now. Who knew how long he'd run, how far he'd go, before the family was able to find him again. Would it be months again, until his son resurfaced? Would he even _be_ Batman's son when Batman saw him again?

"Rebreather, master Damian," Alfred reminded, and Batman was forced back into Hero Mode.

He'd grappled up to level three, and now he was ready to do damage control.

Time to see what mass hysteria looked like.

For, probably, the hundredth time.

* * *

When Nightwing burst through the staircase doors, he was met with utter chaos. If he knew Batman, then he knew only a small amount of gas had gotten out. But if _this_ was the result of just a small ounce of gas, then what time was going through was unreal…

Only minutes had passed by since the gas had reached these people, and already, walls were smeared in blood and other bodily fluids. Screams of terror and laughter echoed down empty halls. Breaking glasses and screams and humming and medical beeps came and went like a wave. The emergency red and yellow lights were all that lit the level now, and that didn't help the creepiness.

"It's pandemonium up here," Nightwing said, pressing his earpiece as he began walking down the empty hall, "It's like the Fear Gas Scare all over again, but… worse."

"I've just caught six people now that's jumped out of the window," Shadow said, "I may not even _make_ it up to level three at this rate."

"Seal it off," Batman told Alfred, "Shadow, you stay on window guard. The rest of us'll contain the patient's."

"Could use some help in the cafeteria," came a grunt from Red Hood, "It's like a war zone in here."

Nightwing took off down the hall towards the cafeteria. He'd been to the hospital with Tim enough times to know all the cafeterias were towards the back left of the building.

He stopped in his tracks, though, when he heard a crash from the room he'd just run by. Backtracking, he pushed open the cracked door, and squinted a bit in the dimly lit room.

"Hello?" he asked, looking around for the source of the crash, "I'm not here to hurt you. I'm here to help."

Something crunched and the sound of something dripping lead Nightwing deeper into the room and towards a hospital bed. A woman sat on the floor, hidden behind the bed, tucked between it and the wall, and Nightwing approached her slowly.

"Hey," he said softly, hoping not to startle her, "I'm here to help you, okay?"

Going around the bed, Nightwing froze in horror when he fully saw the bloody woman. She snapped her attention to him when he gasped, and it took a moment for Nightwing to comprehend what he was seeing. Apparently, the woman had been _eating_ her own leg. Flesh hung off of her leg in shreds and blood spurted out of the veins she'd broken.

"Tina thinks it's good," the woman said, smiling, "But Marissa doesn't like the smell."

Having spent a majority of his life in Gotham as both a cop and a vigilante, Nightwing didn't think anything could faze him.

He was wrong.

* * *

"'Bout time," Red Hood said, tying the last rogue patient to the metal bar he and Batman used as a makeshift jail cell, "What took you?"

Nightwing had just slunk into the cafeteria with a woman over his shoulder, his feet dragging like a father who'd worked on his feet all day. He looked worn and tired already, and honestly, Red Hood could relate to that. But, more so because, _take a look around_ , **he** was doing most of the rounding up.

Batman helped, but, obviously this was mostly him. What did Batman ever do besides stand around and micromanage?

"I'm disturbed," Nightwing said, setting down a chuckling lady with a badly shredded up leg, "This is… this is all…"

"Yeah," Red Hood agreed, "I know."

"There are so many dead," Nightwing said, shaking his head, "I checked every room I passed and there's just… there's just _bodies_. Most of the patients couldn't handle this."

"Can you blame them?" Red Hood asked, checking the binds on a struggling man yelling at himself, "These aren't _mental_ patients. They're just sick. Third floor patients have pneumonia. They have bronchitis. They're not used to hearing violent voices in their heads."

"That's officially everyone," Alfred confirmed, "I'm sending master Damian your way with the neutralizer."

"This _can't_ be everyone," Nightwing sighed, "There were _300_ patients on this floor. We've only got _twenty_."

"Imagine if this stuff had gotten out to the streets," Red Hood said, folding his arms, "We'd lose more than half of Gotham."

This had been no small incident. It had been an cataclysmic tragedy, and it had only spread to a single hospital floor. This was something that would not leave the news, the minds, or the hearts of Gotham for a long, long time. And yet, there was still one other out there yet to be cured or looked after, and everyone's thoughts shifted to the free running boy at the same time. If anything, this only showed a hint into what Tim was going through. If Tim hadn't had his training, if he'd been a regular kid, would he behave like this, too? Did he feel this insane and crazy and messed up? Did the voices in his head really make him want to act like _this_?

It was the saddest truth they'd come across, and everyone silently thought and prayed for Tim, waiting for Shadow to arrive with temporary relief for these victims.

* * *

"Nurses and doctors are on the floor," Alfred said, "The commissioner will be up in a moment as well. Now is a good time to leave, I believe."

After administering the neutralizers, the patient/victims had all fallen into a deep sleep. The family was only waiting around for someone to watch over these poor people, and now that backup was on the way, one by one, they vanished out the windows.

They were tired and mentally exhausted, but they still had a mission to continue. They still had a son, and a brother to save.

"We don't know where he is or could be," Red Hood said, following the batmobile on his motorcycle, "And with Joker laid up, Jay is most likely out of control."

"Maybe Tim's got control again," Nightwing suggested hopefully, his own motorcycle speeding behind the batmobile, "He's won control before."

"Yeah, _before_ ," Red Hood told him.

"Jay's been calling all the shots lately," Nightwing agreed, "But Tim's still in there. He's still alive. We just have to try and figure him out."

"Impossible," Shadow spoke, "He's the least predictable of the four of us."

"It would help if the kid left the house every other blue moon," Red Hood said, "Then we'd have an idea, at least."

The batmobile's tires screamed as Batman spun around 180, and went the opposite way. Red Hood and Nightwing swerved out of the way before following.

"Heads up next time?" Red Hood said, annoyed.

"You're going home?" Nightwing asked, "Why?"

"Because," Batman answered, "it's the only place Tim has left."

* * *

Two blackouts later and Tim found himself stumbling down the secret entrance of the cave. Tim had come in the house through his bedroom window, and after scribbling a note addressed to Bruce, his only saving grace, he was now tiptoeing down the cave stairs. He could already hear the soft and distant hum of electronics, and though he hoped Alfred was not near at present, he knew the man was most likely glued to the batcomputer, keeping tabs on his family.

It would make what Tim was about to do a bit more complicated. Of course, Tim didn't _want_ to die. He wanted to live as much as any normal person. But he was terrified of what another unexpected blackout might cause. He couldn't live his life in constant fear like that. Constant fear that at any moment, he might lash out and blindly kill someone. At any moment, he might see a clown in the mirror instead of his reflection. Constantly fighting a stronger side of himself and trying to block out horrible advice and instructions from a hallucination was exhausting.

Knowing this was the only way out gave him confidence. He remembered now, those days of torture. Those nights of agony. He remembered _why_ he'd felt that burning in his lungs.

Open lung surgery had given the Joker the perfect chance to implant a chip manufactured by a company called Trio Country. The gas Tim was pumped with drive him crazy for sure, but the chip in Tim's lung was what drove him to want to return to the Joker.

That chip was what had him blacking out, and what made Jay so determined to kill his family and go be with the Joker and Harley. Without it, Tim would most likely have just been some mix between psychotic and bipolar.

But it was okay, because once water got into his lungs, once he'd _properly_ drowned, the chip would short circuit, and he'd be cured of _that_ influence. He remembered sharply, Junior's last words. His last joke about water.

He'd known Tim would do this long before Tim had.

If he died here, in the cave, then his body would not be left in a place or position where any bad guys could unmask him and learn his family's secret identity.

No horrible rumor could be made up about him, either. Now, he could've had an accident snowboarding in the Alps. Or he could could have died saving a dolphin. Who cared, as long as he didn't tarnish the Wayne's name in any way.

Whatever horrible drugs that was in his body would also be contained and absorbed by the minerals in the caves rocks, and not, say, going down the drains of Gotham to poison and contaminate the city. If he was saved, though, then he'd return to life free from the Joker's influence. Free from Jay. Free from Junior.

Either way, this was a solution to many problems. Bruce wouldn't like it one bit, and Dick would have a conniption, and Alfred would have a heart attack, and Jason would hate him even more, and Damian would think he was a coward… but that was only five lives truly affected. How many more lives might Tim spare by this decision?

Enough to make a difference, he decided, and that was enough for him. Consider this an attempt at retribution for what had happened at the hospital. He hadn't seen or heard most of it, but he had the feeling it wasn't good.

He just hoped no one had gotten seriously hurt.

He didn't bother take his shoes off or remove his shirt. He was already drenched from the rain. Besides, he didn't want anyone to find him until he'd successfully drowned himself, and leaving shoes lying around contradicted that.

Jay whispered threats and screamed promises of violence. He forced images of a dead Junior into his vision, nearly blinding him. Pain shot up and down his body as Jay tried everything in his book to get Tim to pass out or back out. He emphasized Tim's biggest fear: that he'd wake up and Jay would still be there. But the fact that Jay was trying to dissuade him meant that he was afraid. He feared dying himself, and that nearly brought a smile to Tim's face.

Staring into the black, clouded abyss of one of the caves many natural pools, or cenotes, Tim allowed himself one ounce of fear and regret. But then, before he could back out, and before Jay could claim his body once more, he closed his eyes, and jumped.

* * *

"Start in the kitchen," Batman instructed Shadow, removing his cowl as he got out of the car.

"I'm going to his room," Nightwing said, pulling his helmet off.

"I'll search the library," Red Hood added.

Everyone moved quickly to change out of their suits, but once back in sweats and basketball shorts and t-shirts and hoodies and socks, they moved twice as fast.

Bruce followed Dick up the stairs, skipping stairs and hopping the railing. There was a feeling of a countdown in the air. A weight that suggested time was not on their side, and it put pressure and stress on everyone.

When Dick opened the door to Tim's room, it was like walking into a zoo. Clothes were strewn everywhere, books were on the floor, shoes separated, the bed askew.

"He was just here," Bruce said, stepping over a pile baseball caps, "He's just done this."

"But why?" Dick asked, picking up a hoodie Tim wore often and clutching it, "Why trash his room?"

"To slow us down," Bruce answered, and Dick's eyes widened slightly.

"Why would he want to slow us down, Bruce?"

Dick's tone suggested he already anticipated what Bruce feared the most.

Dick dropped the hoodie as the two spread out to investigate. It didn't take two professional detectives long to find the carefully folded note, marked _Bruce._ It had been hidden at the top of the closet, stuffed inside a ball cap Bruce had given Tim at the first baseball game they'd attended together back when Tim was 13.

"His hands were shaking," Dick observed, looking at the shakily scrawled letters.

"'He feels himself buried in those two infinities,'" Bruce read, "'The ocean and the sky, at one and the same time: the one is a tomb; the other is a shroud.'"

"Victor Hugo, Les Misérables," Damian identified, standing in the doorway.

"What does _that_ mean," Jason asked, coming up the stairs.

"It's an allusion to drowning…" Bruce said quietly.

No one moved for a moment, and everyone shared a look before they all ran out the room, pushing and stumbling and tripping over each other. One of them slid down the banister, one took three and four steps at a time, one jumped the railing, one skipped the steps entirely. It was a race down to the cave to put two and two together as fast as the limits would allow.

"Where would he drown himself?" Dick asked, running down the cave stairs behind Bruce.

"Not the docks," Jason said, behind Dick, "Too impersonal."

"He's somewhere he knows we'll find him," Bruce said, reaching the bottom step and pointing out towards the cave, "He's here, somewhere."

There had never been a more unsettling thought. To think that Tim was there, so close to them all, just steps away from salvation… to think that they might have run over him in their haste to search the house once they'd gotten home…

The thoughts were banished from all of their heads as they began searching for the missing Robin. The pier where the bat-boat was stored was large, but according to Jason and Damian, it was empty. Dick searched the actual pool, while Bruce searched the cryo-pool.

The search seemed almost futile until Alfred called Bruce in a shrill, painstakingly raw voice.

Dick was no idiot. He knew what the note meant, but he couldn't help his sinking heart. He'd hoped they'd been wrong.

Everyone ran towards Alfred with practiced speed, each one thrown into emergency-mode, but Dick found himself walking towards Alfred and the others hesitantly. He couldn't force his body to move any faster.

He could see Bruce pull Tim's limp body from the cenote through the gap between Damian and Jason. He saw Alfred run and get the antidote he'd prepared for the hospital victims. He saw Bruce doing CPR on a still, pale body. But none of it registered in Dick's mind.

He refused to believe what he was seeing. His brother was _not_ dead. He _couldn't_ be. He was _not_ lying there pale, still, unbreathing, _dead_. Not Tim. Not him.

Dick had all but raised Tim. Taught him to fight. To take care of himself. To _fly_. Tim was the closest person he had. He was OCD, and a perfectionist, and never thought highly of himself in any situation, but he was Dick's _friend._ He was Dick's _brother_. And Dick could not bring himself to accept this turn of fate. He couldn't accept that his brother had killed himself.

It was too much.

Somehow, the world tilted and Dick found himself stumbling backwards. Jason was there, suddenly, out from nowhere, and he caught him, though barely and reluctantly.

"Are you serious?" Jason asked.

And then the world faded to black.

* * *

 **We've come to the end of another chapter. It's bittersweet, really, we're _so_ close to the end! **

**Stay tuned tomorrow for the Grand Final!**

 **TheForgottenName**


	24. Out From the Shadows

**Read the comment at the end xoxo**

* * *

Dick was not sure of the last time he'd ever passed out. He was sure it was probably on some mission he went on when he was 10 or 11, but then, Dick was too nosey to allow himself time to sleep. He thrived on knowing things he shouldn't and passing out only left him susceptible to missing information he could witness first hand.

This, was an exception, though.

Tim, his brother, was dead, and his body and mind could not comprehend that simple truth.

"He's not dead, Dick," came a voice, and Dick's eyes snapped open to Jason.

Jason was sitting cross legged in a chair, chewing gum, and reading a motorcycle magazine like everything in the world was fine and right.

"Wait, _what_?" Dick asked, sitting up, as his brain caught up with what he'd heard.

"He's not dead," Jason repeated, "Bruce brought him back. Took nearly a full hour, but he's back."

Dick had never felt more relieved. Suddenly feeling 100% again, he jumped out of the cave medical bed and prepared to run up to Tim's room, where most likely, he was.

"Dick, wait," Jason said, grabbing his arm and thinking about how he worded what he was about to say, "He's not… he's…"

"He's what?"

"He's not… _right_ ," Jason said slowly, "He's not normal. Not yet, at least."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"He came back, but, he hasn't spoken. He wouldn't look at Bruce or any of us. Bruce thinks he's traumatized, but Alfred said it may have been a side effect of the antidote."

"Well, which is it?"

"Don't know yet, but as of right now, he's totally unresponsive and when he does respond to stimuli, it's out of fear. Maybe don't run into his room like a psycho path."

Dick covered his mouth as he thought. Tim had been through a lot. He had more than the right to be traumatized. His father was dead. Joker could, though unlikely, be dead by his hands. Graves were dug up, people were hurt, patients killed, and the voices that had previously been so prominent in his life were, hopefully, gone.

Somehow, Tim has gotten used to a voice in his head telling him to hurt and kill and do all kinds of things he'd had to wrestle to resist daily. With that voice gone, his mind needed time to recover and readjust and get back to normal.

The word 'normal' was used lightly. Dick was sure Tim would never be the same again, though whether Tim was stronger because of this or too far broken was yet to be seen.

All Dick knew was that he'd be there for his brother, whether Tim wanted him there or not.

Skipping steps all the way up to the second floor, Dick spotted Bruce immediately. The man had a newspaper and was sitting besides Tim's door, reading.

"You're very dramatic," Bruce said when Dick approached him, and Dick knew he was talking about Dick's passing out.

"It was a long night for me," Dick said, shoving his hands into his pockets, "That hadn't been how I'd expected it to end."

" _No one_ expected that," Bruce sighed, folding his paper up, "But, I think we all deserve some time off from Gotham's streets. We've forgotten how dangerous not _it_ is, but the aftermath of tragedies."

"If we'd given him the help he'd needed right after his kidnapping, he might not have gotten so bad," Dick agreed, leaning against the wall.

"There's a lot of cleanup necessary now," Bruce said, showing Dick the paper headline.

 _ **Joker Gas Kills Hundreds of Innocents**_ , it read, and Dick shook his head. That had been such a nightmare. Tim would absolutely hate himself when he realized his his other self had done while he'd had control.

"It's a long road to recovery," Bruce sighed, "He's going to need all of us now."

"I know," Dick said.

"It's not going to be easy, Dick."

"I _know_ that, Bruce."

"He'll have relapses, most likely."

"Bruce, why are you talking to me like i'm a kid?" Dick asked, pushing off of the wall, "I know how trauma recovery works."

At least, Dick _thought_ he did. If he'd understood as much as he thought, then why hadn't he noticed Tim's unhealthy state earlier than he had?

"You're emotional," Bruce shrugged, sitting back and opening his paper again, "Besides, we'll need to support each other in this just as much as we need to support Tim."

If this was Bruce supporting him, then Bruce had a long road to travel down, too.

"I'm going in to see him," Dick said, and Bruce grabbed his arm for a moment.

"Be careful with him," was all Bruce said, before going back to his paper again.

Dick went into the dark room slowly, closing the door behind himself.

The room was darkened, the curtain being half drawn and the window shut tight. Bruce and Alfred must have cleaned up because everything was back in it's original, perfect place and the floor was vacuumed and the glass window Dick had broken a few days ago was repaired. He noticed that the bathroom was blocked by the dresser now, though, and one of Tim's shelves blocked his closet. Bruce no doubt had done that knowing Tim was not strong enough to move anything heavy at present. Most likely, he'd been afraid that Tim would hurt himself, and sealing off the window and bathroom and closet was his way of keeping Tim from doing so.

Tim was propped into a half sitting position, tucked into at least three blankets, with pillows spread all over him. In the shadows, it was unclear whether or not he was sleeping, but, he was breathing, and that was Dick's main concern.

"Hey buddy," Dick said, approaching him, "It's me, Dick. Want some company?"

Dicked pulled a chair with him and took a seat besides Tim's bed. Even in the shadows, he looked pale and sick and his blue eyes were red rimmed and his nose was red. He didn't acknowledge Dick's presence at all. He didn't react to Dick or his voice. He simply stared straight ahead. But Dick took that over Tim being afraid of him. Who knew what was going on in the boy's mind right now. Who knew what distorted facts overwhelmed his thoughts.

"Thought I'd read to you or something," Dick decided, finding he had no other words for the boy.

What do you say to the brother you let down? How do you comfort the victim who is used to being the hero?

Searching the bookshelf, Dick scowled at the book: _Top 50 Most Unfortunate Mysteries._ Tim had hit him in the face with it once. How had _that_ not alerted Dick to Tim's intense sickness? It had literally smacked him in the face. Finding a vintage Sherlock Holmes mystery, though, Dick shook his head.

Maybe Bruce was right. They _all_ had to find a way to recover from this. From the shock, from the emotional drainage. Dick knew for sure he'd have to build his own confidence back up. Right now he felt useless and stupid and ashamed. He called himself a hero, he called himself a detective, he went out and saved people daily- and yet, he'd failed to save his own brother. He'd failed to notice just how intense his brother's illness had been. What kind of hero failed one of his own?

Dick fought back tears as he sat back besides Tim and opened the book. His sniffed hard and cleared his throat as he began reading. He tapped his foot as he read, knowing how much Tim loved steady beats, and hopefully, this would be a good start to getting his brother back.

* * *

Jason tapped his foot as he repaired the grappling gun he'd broken the night before. The kid loved electronics, so Jason figured it was healthy to immerse him in it. He tried to incorporate all the things he knew Tim liked back into his life. The smell of rain and cut grass. Steady beats. Vintage mystery novels. Classical music. Anything that would remind Tim that the world was worth returning to.

 _Life,_ was worth returning to.

Dick turned the page in the book he read, his foot tapping to match Jason's.

"My money's on the lady in red," Dick said, "She only loved him for his money."

"Always go with the butler," Jason said, shaking his head, "If anyone decided they wanted to kill the family, it would probably be Alfred."

Dick's head snapped up to Jason and Jason cringed. He'd spoken without thinking again. Dick gave him a face and Jason nodded, rolling his eyes. Controlling what he said, when he said it, and how he said it was possibly the hardest thing Jason had ever done. And he'd _died_ before. He no longer denied that Tim needed a softer approach to his 'condition'. The kid had been unresponsive for, what, two weeks now? But controlling what he said in front of the kid was easier said than done.

"Feeding time," Alfred said, entering the room with a tray.

Dick closed his book, and quietly took his leave. He was squeamish, as of late, and couldn't handle watching Tim get a tube shoved down his nose. Since Tim was mostly unresponsive, he was given a calorie-rich liquid feed through nasogastric tube feeding, a process that got the most response out of the kid. In short, he did _not_ like having a tube shoved down his nose. Jason or Bruce usually held the struggling Tim down, long enough for Alfred to get the tube down him.

It was a process Dick couldn't stand to watch and would probably take the time to sit or workout with Damian.

* * *

A month had passed, and it had taken Damian that long to brave Drake's room. He denied the need for therapy, but with reluctance, he accepted that the person Drake had become, the _people_ he'd become, had been unlike anything Damian had ever seen. And maybe, being hung and fighting with a boy that was Drake but was not Drake had fueled it's fair share of nightmares. But Damian was over it now. Or so he claimed.

He'd fought worst monsters than his brother, after all.

Grayson had been somewhat like a therapist now that Damian thought back. The man listened and said little when Damian felt so inclined to actually say how he felt. It felt good to feel past the worst of the storm. To feel the sun's rays after the dawn.

Pennyworth insisted Damian at least stop by Drake's room. Everyone was lending a hand to try and drag Drake from the catatonic stupor he'd fallen in. Damian doubted _he_ could do that, but now that he felt past the shock of the incident, he didn't deny giving it a try.

Patrols and nights without Drake were common now, but no one forgot or got used to being without him. Even Damian missed his sarcastic and principled presence. Drake had always been different. A different kind of person, a different kind of hero. Getting him back out on the streets was Damian's idea of therapy. But Drake was not ready for that. Until then, though, Damian would recount the missions he'd been on in precise details with exact facts. Damian always neglected how the case was solved though.

Let Drake figure them out on his own. Give him something to think about.

* * *

"Jay, we need to talk," Dick said, knocking on the bathroom door.

It was two in the morning and Dick had just calmed Tim after a nightmare. Usually, when the nightmares got as bad as the one Tim had just had, Dick gave him either an anesthetic, or the schizophrenia medication Dr. Leslie had suggested.

This time was different, though.

"On the throne," was Jason's reply.

Dick rolled his eyes before picking the lock quickly and going in.

Jason was, indeed, on the 'throne'. But the seat cover was down and his pants were up. In fact, his feet were up on the edge of the tub beside him and he was typing away on his laptop.

"Said I was on the toilet, Grayson," was Jason's half hearted reprove.

"Yeah, I heard you," Dick said, sitting in the edge of the tub, "But we need to talk."

Nowadays, everyone already knew the topic. Jason simply saved his search and closed his computer.

"What do you want?" he asked, and Dick scratched the back of his neck.

"I, uh... I want to go out," the oldest said, his face showing that 'look' Jason usually had before a bad idea was presented.

"I'll cover for you, then," Jason said, knowing already that Dick came to ask for much more than an alibi.

"I don't want to go out _alone,_ " Dick said, "I want to take Tim out. Let him get some fresh air."

"Dick Grayson-"

"-I know, I know," Dick interrupted, "But he's been cooped up in that room for a month. He needs a change of scenery. A room that he _wasn't_ haunted in."

"Take him down to the cave, then," Jason suggested, "That's a different room."

"He _drowned_ in the cave," Dick scolded, "He needs to go somewhere _new._ Somewhere where there are no bad memories."

"Bruce would kill you, Dick," Jason said, shaking his head, " _I_ almost want to kill you."

"How healthy would it be if we lived across the street from where we buried _you_?"

Touche, Dick. Touche.

"One hour," Jason said, standing, "That's how long you have."

"We're just walking to the end of the driveway," Dick said, smiling at having won the argument, "Nothing bad happened there."

"That we know of…" Jason said, rolling his eyes.

Jason helped Dick bundle Tim up in his coat. He put the kids sneakers on, and tied his scarf around his neck. Tim didn't deny the actions. Didn't even acknowledge that Jason was dressing him. But once Dick was ready to go out, dressed in his own scarf and coat, Tim's eyebrows furrowed as he looked blankly at the oldest.

"There's a reaction," Jason said, standing the boy up.

"He doesn't look happy," Dick admitted, pulling on his gloves.

"I don't think he likes your winter wear, Dick."

"That's crazy," Dick said, but when he took a step towards Tim, Tim took one backwards towards Jason.

"Dick…" Jason warned, and the oldest shook his head, walking to Tim and grabbing his hand.

"He'll be fine," Dick said, "We won't be gone long."

Jason folded his arms and shook his head. This had bad idea written all over it. And Jason would know. He'd had a million _terrible_ ideas.

Jason watched Dick sneak Tim out the front doors from the foyer. Tim just walked along, Dick pulling him by his hand, like a mindless puppy. He still seemed completely detached from the world, but something about Dick dressed for outside had sparked recognition. He'd 'seen' Dick a hundred times in the past month, and nothing had made him react like he'd just did. Even that small furrow of his eyebrows had been a momentous reaction.

Jason sat in the chair they kept outside of Tim's room. He expected Alfred to be the one he'd have to stall and lie to. He expected Bruce to come by and ask about Tim.

In the end, it was Tim who disrupted the quiet.

Dick and Tim had been gone a whole fifteen minutes before the front door flew open and Dick was dragging a screaming, fighting Tim back in the house.

"Stay off the rink!" Tim yelled, fighting Dick weakly, but with more energy than anyone had seen in months, "There's blood there! It's bloody! _Damian_!"

"Dick, what did you _do_ to him?" Jason asked, running down the stairs.

"Nothing!" Dick defended, struggling to hold Tim still, "We were just _walking!_ We were under the trees and he just _panicked_!"

"Don't hurt him!" Tim screamed, "Don't hang him! He's a _kid_!"

Alfred ran in from the kitchen, and Damian and Bruce ran in from the study. Dick didn't even have time to explain and everyone broke the boy down out of his coat and scarf and hat. Dick clasped Tim's flailing hands together and Jason grabbed his legs and they carried the struggling boy back up the stairs to his room.

An hour later and Tim was still screaming about a bloody ice rink and Damian hanging from a tree. Damian explained the incident he and Jay had had when Jay had run from the cave and Dick had all but cried when he realized the memory he'd caused to resurface. Though Dick usually calmed Tim when his fits escalated, he was useless in this situation. Nothing he did got Tim to quiet down.

It was Bruce who calmed Tim this time. He'd kicked everyone out the room and shut the door. From outside, nothing but Tim's screams could be heard. But minute by minute, the cries died down to whimpers. Which died down to hiccups. Which became sniffs, which ended in silence.

When Bruce came out of the room an hour later, he put his finger to his mouth to make sure everyone stayed quiet while Tim slept away the rest of his fit. Alfred was standing by with both medications, but Bruce instructed them to just let the kid sleep it off.

Maybe it was just Jason, but he felt like they'd taken three steps backwards in helping the kid.

* * *

How long had passed? Hours? Days? Weeks? Months?

Tim was not sure. Time blurred together in a continuous stream of voices and blankets and sunlight and darkness.

He was conscious, to an extent. He could hear and think and see, but only in blurry images and muted sounds. But then, he wasn't really _trying_ to see, or hear, or do anything.

The lack of his other selves, as odd as it was, left him with what felt like a gaping hole in his mind. The silence he now heard made him feel, of all things, lonely. It made thinking seem deeper and thoughts felt louder, and at times, they seemed to overwhelm and bury him. It was a relief when someone came to speak with him.

Ignoring voices gave him something to focus on.

He liked Dick's visits the best, which wasn't shocking. Dick came every morning and afternoon religiously, and some nights as well. He always tapped or stomped and spoke constantly.

That steady beat calmed him. It grounded him. Gave him a sense of time and reminded him that not everything was unpredictable. Of course, sometimes, when Dick got carried away talking, or he found himself distracted, the beat would sometimes falter. But it always came back stronger, as if Dick felt the need to make up for the mistake.

When Jason came, Tim found himself flinching. Flinching at every sound and move Jason made. He wasn't sure if that was because Jason scared him, or because he was afraid he'd scare Jason. Or, at the very least, stab him.

Again.

When Damian came by, Tim struggled with the panic attacks. Damian always told about a particularly challenging mission or case he'd read, and Tim liked that Damian didn't spoil the ending. He liked solving them on his own. But after telling the story, Damian had very little to say and essentially faded into ignorance as he walked around the room or stared out the window. Hearing Damian talk was a relief, proving that Tim had not killed him. He hadn't beat him to death and he hadn't hung him. When Damian went silent, though, Tim wondered if he'd wake up to find the boy dead on the floor.

One last, cruel blackout to blame for it.

When Alfred came by, it was usually to stick that stupid tube down Tim's nose. And he hated that. It made him feel like he was being experimented on again. Like Joker was there, shocking and cutting and unsuccessfully putting him half to sleep and waking him with cold water and hitting and beating and screaming and laughing and… and etc. It didn't matter anymore. This was worse, though, because it wasn't Joker and Harley, two criminals holding him down.

This time, it was his family.

When Bruce came by, Tim blocked the world out entirely. He didn't want to hear Bruce speak softly to him or apologize or read to him. Tim didn't deserve that. He didn't deserve to be forgiven or apologized to. He deserved to be sent to Arkham for his crimes and his behavior.

He'd done nothing to be proud of.

Though things slowly began making sense again, Tim would not say he was 'cured' because ever since he woke up from drowning, he'd felt exactly the same. Some things still terrified him, like steak knives and sleep and ice skating rinks. But, Tim supposed there were worse things to fear.

Like clowns.

Still, he grew weary of sitting still and living in his head. He'd needed time of readjust to being able to think freely again. His thoughts were his alone, again, and the freedom that came with not being afraid that his thoughts would be turned against him had taken time to adjust back to.

Coming to terms with the past has much harder than looking to the future, though.

What he'd done to those patients, he would never forgive himself for. All the hurt and destroyed families he'd caused. Women had died. Twenty-eight children had died. Two pregnant women. Thirty-six teenagers. Fifty two elderly people. All dead, because Tim had lost control of himself.

The loss of his father had hit him not soon after that. When his thoughts finally began making sense again, he'd cried for nearly four days straight. If he had been more sane, more together, more in control, he'd of noticed his father's weakening condition sooner. He'd of known he'd had a short time left, and he could've made the best of it. Instead, he'd wasted time, and in effect, lost the ability to tell his father _everything_ when he still had the chance.

It hurt to remember those things. It hurt to recall in the middle of the night some man he'd robbed for no reason and stole a hotdog and a _I Survived Gotham_ T-shirt from. It hurt that he'd hurt other people so badly.

He remembered absolutely everything. From Junior's laugh, to Jay's fighting ability. And while he was probably a much better fighter because of that, there was nothing of Jay's that Tim wanted. Not even knowledge.

It was early one morning when he decided to actually get out of bed and step out of the house. Moving around, seeing things for what they were and not blurry colored blobs felt like waking up in it's own right.

It should have felt good, but all Tim could recall was how painful getting control of his his body had felt. How short of breath he'd been since Joker had cut his lungs open. Since Joker had… _no_. Thinking about it didn't help. Better to ignore and push on. Push on past the pain. Push on towards being better. Towards being, not happy, but perfect. Being selfish had done nothing but hurt his family.

Walking out the back door and into the perfectly cut grass, Tim didn't mind the biting in his skin the bitter and gelid wind caused.

The air was brisk and steady, and in the morning light, it gave the world a sense of being recharged. Rebooted and restarted and reloaded to show a day that wasn't at all yesterday or the day before. This was a new day, one filled with as many wonders and mysteries as he wanted. All he had to do was find them.

It should have made him optimistic about his future. Joker was alive. Harley was alive. While he hadn't necessarily been a 'good boy', he hadn't _personally_ killed anyone, either. Not show he was in control, anyway. And honestly, that was a real feat to be proud of.

Still, he'd tarnished Robin's name and his own reputation. Digging up graves and running around town barefoot… he'd been absolutely insane. That kind of behavior, it wasn't a Robin's kind of behavior.

He'd already made his mind up, he would not longer be Robin. He'd give the mask to the little demon that wanted it so bad. It was up for grabs because Tim didn't want it, and probably, no one wanted him to have it. He didn't want to hold the weight of tradition on his shoulders anymore.

What he'd do now, he did not know. Robin had been his true self. It had been his real identity. Without it, it made the world feel even more raw and terrifying than it had been before. Tim knew what Robin would do in most situations. But would _Tim_ do now?

Maybe he'd come up with a new identity. One that was not known and had no definable characteristics yet. One that fit his new personality. One that could be smarter. Stronger. Better. One that was more perfect.

He needed to do better than he had. Be better than he was. Do better than he thought he ever could. He needed to be better for the people that cared about him. For their own sakes.

"Cold out here," came a deep voice, and Tim turned slightly to acknowledge Bruce's presence.

Bruce dropped Tim's coat around his shoulders and put his own hands in his pockets.

"It's a good coffee kind of morning," Bruce nodded, looking up at the lightening pink sky.

Every morning was a good coffee morning.

"I'm not Robin anymore," Tim said simply, dry and to the point.

"You are Robin," Bruce said, just as plainly, "You'll always be Robin. Same as Dick and Jason."

"I haven't been Robin since the Joker took me," Tim admitted, "Robin is more than a suit. He's a symbol. An attitude. A icon. One I don't fit anymore."

"The decision is yours," Bruce nodded, "Damian is more than willing to accept the role."

"I know he is."

"But now what? What will you be? I know you, you need a goal to keep you motivated. What will you strive for?"

"Simple," Tim said, putting his coat on fully now, "Now, I strive for perfection."

Tim could feel Bruce look at him, and he already knew what the man was thinking. But the way Tim saw it, the way he calculated it, it _was_ obtainable. One just had to devote his life to it.

"Tim," Bruce said, expectantly, "You know there's no such thing as perfect-"

"Wrong," Tim said, shaking his, "there _is_ such a thing as perfect. Perfect is real and it is close and it is _always_ just within reach. Perfect is real, we've just… never seen it."

"Sure…" Bruce said, picking and choosing his argument, "but no _human_ is perfect. _That's_ an impossible goal to go after."

"Perfection is never impossible. I just have to work harder. I have to push myself to do better. Perfect people don't have problems. Perfect people don't cry, and they don't screw up, and they don't show any weaknesses. If I want to be perfect, I've got to eliminate all of my weaknesses. All of my hindrances and all of my problems."

"You'll never get rid of _all_ your problems. That's the _problem,_ with _problems:_ they don't do what you want them to."

That was such an imperfect thing to say.

"Tim," Bruce sighed, "You don't need to be perfect. Your best _is_ good enough. _You_ are good enough. You were meant to wear the mask, but if you don't want it, you'll be good enough in _whatever_ you decide to do. I believe that. I'm _proud_ of that."

Tim furrowed his eyebrows as he looked out over the Wayne property. Tears fell freely and he hated that he found it so hard to block Bruce's voice like he had been doing for the past few months. He didn't deserve to be forgiven like this. So easily and simply.

He needed to suffer for the hurt he'd caused. He needed to be perfect because, deep down he knew, he could never be. And that would be the letdown he deserved. It would push him to only work harder. Beat himself until he fainted. Work until his brain hurt. Fight until his knuckles bled. Striving for the unobtainable meant a life of unhappiness, and _that,_ was what he deserved. Not forgiveness. Not second chances.

It was his greatest fear that he'd wake up to find nothing had changed. Junior was playing another prank on him. Jay was gasing some other building full of innocents. His family was turning on him and the voices in his head were more than his own. Maybe he lived in a fantasy world Jay created to keep him occupied while his body was used for evil. Maybe, he was going insane again. Maybe nothing made sense, though he thought it did. Maybe…

"Let's go back inside," Bruce said, grabbing Tim gently by his shoulder, "It's cold."

Tim blankly allowed himself to be lead back towards the house, he was caught in the vast emptiness of his mind again. Dick stood in the doorway beside Alfred, and Jason and Damian watched on from the windows.

They would grow used to Tim's bursts of illogical spiels and nights where he cried and screamed hysterically from guilt and shame from actions he'd had no control over. There would be good days, where Tim would listen quietly as someone read to him. And there would be bad days, where a crooked painting drove Tim to rip the thing off the wall entirely in frustration. His OCD had only worsened since he'd come back to life.

But this was only the beginning of a new round of recovery. He was walking and talking again, and that was an improvement.

Who knew, in a few months, maybe he'd be down in the cave directing his family while they were on patrol. Maybe he'd help train the new Robin. And after that, maybe, he'd find a new identity to fight crime as. Then, and only then, could he join the fight he was destined to fight in.

Only then, could he truly come out of the shadowed corners.

* * *

 **And scene!**

 **That's the end. That's it. This ship has sailed. The story is over. And, I'm totally sad about it. I mean, I feel like my kid's just graduated or something. I'm proud and I'm sad.**

 **I thought it fitting to end the story like that, with Tim just not totally well but definitely on the path to being. He was 'sick' this entire story. It would take more than a chapter or two to get him back to a place of actually being at peace with himself. Also, hints at the new Red Robin identity, which, I thought, was pretty cool. Anyone that knows Red Robin knows he's awesome, so clearly, this patch in Tim's life is something he gets past, and uses it to just be more AWESOME.**

 **Anyway, I've got other kids, so to speak. Plenty of stories are in the making right now. Next chapter, I'm gonna upload some story summaries of stories I'm already working on. I thought it'd be fun to hear what you guys would want to read about next.**

 **Stay tuned for more stories from me, and a chapter of possible next story options. Thanks for hanging with me and reading this!**

 **TheForgottenName**

 **Xoxxoxo**


	25. Story Ideas

A Bird in the Hand:

Jack Drake was four things for certain. A millionaire. A psychotic criminal. An actor. And, supposed to be dead. Jack may _seem_ scatter brained and low-key bipolar, but he's more cunning than meets the eye. It's up in the air whether the abuse of his son was part of the plan. No one really knows why the sudden incline in Drake In. And lately, the new villain on the street is shaking up more trouble than anyone Batman's ever faced. Jack Drake may just be the worst thing to ever hit Gotham's streets.

A Keyless Birdcage:

Arkham Asylum was bad. Very bad. But they say Pennhurst is Arkham's mean older brother. After convincing Bruce to let him go, Tim and his older brothers infiltrate the prison in hopes of getting answers and clearing their own names. But Pennhurst isn't just a prison. And the men who run it aren't just men. Tim will find that he's signed up for a mission he may not be able to walk out of.

All the Same to Me:

The bat-family was so dangerous because even without powers, they could do the impossible. Over and over again have they saved the planet and the Justice League. An accident though makes the improbable, a reality, and the family gets powers. Now, they must learn to navigate them while trying to keep it from the world.

Got Your Back:

Tim wakes after a fight with the Riddler with no memory of how he'd gotten into the dark alleyway he found himself in. His brothers have no idea either, but they're determined to make their way home despite the black hole eating all of Gotham. The nightmares never cease as one by one, Tim's brothers fall, and ultimately he finds that despite how different he is from them all, they've always got his back.

In the Name of Justice:

When Jason goes missing, there is sudden unrest in the criminal underworld. All clues say the lowlifes and scumbags of the city know what happened to him, but no one's talking, afraid of some higher power with deep pockets and even deeper roots in the city. Dick and Tim are assigned to go undercover, build themselves a name in the underworld, and find Jason. But as time goes on, they may be _too_ good at being bad…

Tricks of the Trade:

Becoming Robin was a tireless journey that never ended. Full of blood, bruises, scratches, scrapes, and scars, Tim's second thinking his gung-ho involvement in the bat-family. After all, he's got _several_ very serious phobias. When Batman leaves Gotham on a mission, Dick decides it's time to show his brother the tricks of the trade.

Whatever You Say:

When the Justice League get into an argument over who has the best sidekicks, a bet is made and the gloves are removed. Batman's always been above such childish games, but this time, he can't help but be roped in, and in order to settle the score, he bets his children's competence. But, he overlooked one thing: they're _his_ children. And how often does his children follow his rules?

Off Season:

Candid shots of the bat-family and Wayne's told from the perspective of civilians.

Gotta Love Me Anyway:

Everyone knew the famous power couple Nightwing and Starfire. They were both literally beautiful, but they also were beautiful on the inside. That is, when they _weren't_ being total control freaks. Their fame made living in the shadows that much easier for Tim and Starfire's new-found brother, Ryan. Being grounded and housebound on Saturday was literal torture, not that Tim had somewhere to go. And usually, he'd abide by those rules. But, every now and then, younger brothers come out from the shadows and cause a little mayhem.

A Loss of Control

He had been young when Bruce Wayne had taken him in, which was why he didn't remember those six months that he had gone missing. Six months of unaccounted for memory loss. But one thing was clear, those nightmares didn't start until Slade showed up. He had never been more determined to catch a villain before. He was obsessed with catching that man. But he was also afraid. More afraid than he ever remembered being. And somehow, he knew that masked man knew more than he let on.

Birds of a Feather:

Dick is a ruthless, strong, and fearless leader. He is brave and never thinks twice about getting done what needs to be done. Sacrificing his friends for a distraction or allowing them to get a few bumps and bruises is part of the job. But when Batman goes missing, his younger brother Tim must come and stay with him, revealing a loving and caring side of dick the team has never seen. But now that Tim's left Gotham, it seems Gotham has followed him. Its beginning to make more and more sense that the reason Batman went missing was to protect Tim, but somehow got caught himself. Now, Dick must lead his team and younger brother on a mission to find the Dark Knight and free his brother from whatever cage he's gotten himself trapped in.

Broken Realities:

Starfire changed the past, and now she's desperately trying to fix it so that her future will still hold true. And if being lost in time wasn't enough, meeting Robin in multiple realities is enough to make her head spin. She'll need the help of all of her friends though, in every reality, if she's going to make it back to the home she remembered.

Chased

It was wrong from the start, but he couldn't deny the exhilaration. He couldn't deny that it felt good to be chased after. To be longed for. Small flirts here and there to keep her going. Keep her interested. But he was getting careless, fell into routine, and one could only chase for so long.

Hard to Come By:

When Robin gets a call saying his brother may be in danger, he goes back to Gotham immediately. The Titans follow him without a second thought. But Gotham is very different than Jump City, and when weird things start to happen that even Batman can't figure out, Robin may find that his friends would rather leave him and go back to the city.

Shielded Hearts:

Tamaranians have a shielded heart. It takes a lot for them to let another in. But once they do, that person literally becomes a part of them. The more they love the person, the deeper that person becomes a part of their well being. Dick Grayson reached deeper into Kori's than could ever be possible, which is why the moment he broke up with her, her world changed. Her memory gone, heart cold, and instincts dimmed, she searches the galaxy, looking for her home, brother, and sister. Dick realizes too late that he's made an enormous mistake letting the girl he loves go, so he enlisted the Titans to find her. When he does, he's met with a woman he doesn't know and must convince her, not only to return to earth, but to stay with him as well.

Just Roll with It:

Beast Boy is transported to another dimension where he must attend school in order to reunite with his friends and return home.


End file.
